Dawn Will Come
by Adrianne Whitt
Summary: Taranari Lavellan had a dark and lonely past, filled with lives half-lived, and those who would take advantage of her. It wasn't until she joined the Inquisition that she finally began to belong. But when Haven is destroyed, everything is thrown out of balance and suddenly her Commander represents something she doesn't want to remember. Lots of off-canon and angst.
1. Unsettled

**Oh yes, another Cullen and Inquisitor romance. If you're here, you already know you love it or you think you might love it and need more convincing; either way, I hope this is the story for you! But fair warning, there's lots of off canon, especially with my Inquisitor's backstory, and it's rated M for a reason.**

**Disclaimer: silly Bioware doesn't need us all to declare we don't own their characters, but we do it anyway!**

**Hope you enjoy and you're avidly playing and replaying as I am!**

**Edit: It's rated M because of sexual assault that occurred prior to the story's opening, which is not and will not be described in detail (beyond some Cole-type dialogue) but is a plot point and is discussed fairly frequently. I just want to make that clear. However, I will flag all chapters that discuss it in any detail, if there are those of you who would like to read this story, but feel that it may be a trigger for you in any way. Alternatively, you can PM me and I will send you edited versions of the chapters if you'd prefer. I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable or feel like they're missing out, so please don't hesitate to contact me!**

**Ok, that's all, back to the story :)**

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><p>Chapter 1 – Unsettled<p>

"Holy mackerel," she said, sliding her thinly gloved palm up the side of the stone wall. "This place is…" From a distance, she'd been stunned by the fortress Solas led them to, but up close, it was even more awe inspiring, and daunting.

Because she knew what came next, the shoes she'd be asked to fill once their new home was claimed. It had only been a matter of time, and it intimidated her immensely.

"Nice job, Baldy," Varric said appreciatively, giving Solas a rough pat on the back.

"I did not think it possible," Cassandra agreed, staring up in wonder at Skyhold's thick stone battlements and soaring watch towers. "It's perfect."

Tara looked over her shoulder at the giant bridge they'd just crossed to get to the hold's main gates. "Corypheus certainly won't be sneaking up on us again," she muttered, more to herself than anyone.

"He has a dragon, Herald," Solas pointed out.

"Way to ruin the moment."

The bald mage raised the corner of his mouth slightly, turning away from her to resume his efforts to help Varric open the keep's gates, and she sighed. While they were similar in race, and possibly humor, she had done far more to offend the man than to earn his trust in the past weeks, extolling the virtues of the Dalish, without really knowing anything about them, bemoaning that she had only been with a clan a handful of months and had never been marked with the blood writing that characterized those she considered _her people… _He'd backed down soon enough during that spat, having accepted her apologies graciously, but Tara couldn't shake the feeling that he was disappointed in her. It made the back of her neck itch when she looked at him.

In reality, she was no more Dalish than he was. She was born Dalish, yes, but after they abandoned her… Well, she had spent much more time with humans than elves, and, despite her ideas about the traditionalists of her race, she had never been very "elfy," as Sera would say. Returning to the Dalish had been an act of desperation, one that never made her feel right or at home, orphan that she was.

Still, the ideal of being Dalish, she clung to. It was the only thing she could claim as heritage, the closest thing she had to family.

She hoped Solas had understood her reasons, as little as she'd explained them to him. She didn't like feeling like she was being judged for trying to be proud of her race; she and Sera had been through similar struggles on the subject. Regardless of the fact the only real thing that tied her to them were her pointed ears.

"Herald!" Commander Cullen came galloping up on one of Dennet's steeds, gold hair shining in the cold morning sun. As he crossed the bridge, a few soldiers in tow on mounts of their own, the fur coat he wore over his heavy plate armor billowed behind him magnificently in the wind. Tara chuckled a little at the sight; she was almost certain he wore that thing for the damn effect.

"Commander! To what do I owe the pleasure?" she called casually, attempting to make light of the entrance, though she sensed trouble.

Cullen pulled his horse to a stop right in front of her, leaning down and reaching a hand out to help her onto the back of his steed as he spoke. "A rift appeared right in the caravan's path and it's spitting rage demons. We need you to close it before we're overtaken." She took his hand, placing her boot in the stirrup he'd vacated for the moment, and swung easily into the saddle behind him. It was only once she was there, that she realized what close proximity that would put them in, and her throat constricted.

She hadn't been that close to a man, any man, especially a human, _especially _a Templar, in years. She gulped down her nerves, meeting Cassandra's eyes, which had a knowing sheen. Tara had told her a little about her rocky past, and she seemed to recognize the elf's discomfort.

"You three stay here and get that door open. I'm sure you can handle whatever scavengers may be lurking inside, but stick to the first level if you can so I can find you when I return with the others." The orders came naturally to her now, not like they had when she'd first joined the Inquisition; then it had been maddening trying to find the right words, the right balance between comrade and commander, as the mark on her hand made her Commander and Chief of the 'Close the Maker Forsaken Rifts and Find Out What The Hell Happened' Brigade.

She admitted to herself she'd looked to the man whose back she was now pressed against in the saddle several times as an example as she made that transition; he'd always seemed like such a natural to Tara. Now she realized that he'd probably grown into the role the same way she had, not that the superior smirk he was always throwing at her hinted at any such learning curve.

"Hold on," he said briskly to her, as he nudged his heels into the horse's sides, making her start forward. Tara wrapped her arms around his armored waist, reminding herself repeatedly of who he was, why she was there, what he wanted from her. It did nothing to lessen the pounding of her heart at having her legs wrapped around his own, in whatever capacity.

Cullen urged the horse into a gallop, making them jar against each other uncomfortably, the edges of his armor digging into her at each uneven point of the path. She actually welcomed the feeling, knowing it distanced the current situation from the memory that made her body tense and her skin crawl, though not enough to put her ease.

It was with relief that she bounded off the horse, the green gash on her hand sparking uncomfortably as she trotted towards its larger counterpart.

The rift wasn't very large, but it was just off the main path, a sickening tear in the fabric of their world, festering with green light like that of the anchor. And the Commander had not been lying about the demons. Her companions who had remained with the Haven caravan were scattered in between groups of soldiers, attempting to fend off the rage demons spewing from the rip in the Fade.

Since her people were keeping the demons occupied, she went straight for the rift, dodging groups of soldiers and a few injured until she stood directly beneath the glowing mass. Summoning on the force she still didn't understand, she raised her marked hand and pushed out with her mind toward the break, imagining it being shoved closed from all sides. Tara closed her eyes, focusing, feeling the energy surge out from the anchor to the chaos of the rift, concentrating on shrinking that chaos until it was nothing but a miniscule scar on the face of the Fade.

When she opened her eyes, the rift was gone, and, weakened, the demons were quickly dealt with.

"Good work!" Cullen trotted towards her, smiling that golden boy smile of his.

She waved him off, her body still reacting warily after the ride over, despite that sense told it otherwise. "That was a little one."

"_That _was a little one?" the Commander repeated, not looking convinced. "It was half the size of the Breach!"

"Trust me," she chuckled, running a shaky hand through her deep red hair.

_Don't you trust me, Tara? _Hollith's words echoed back in her head, and she winced at the connection. She hadn't been affected like this in a long time; why now?

Cullen's mouth quirked in that lopsided smirk she'd come to recognize as his trademark, and he dismissed himself to check on the wounded.

Tara watched him go, confusion and fear swimming through her usually solid determination. This could _not _become a problem again. Not now.


	2. Memories

**Hey you, it's chapter two! Please let me know what you think and of course, enjoy! :)**

**Edit: I've been asked to put up warnings before chapters that discuss Tara's sexual assault, so WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT DISCUSSED. Hope that's helpful :)**

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><p>Chapter 2 – Memories<p>

"His bloodshot eyes, quiet keening, Templar armor, hand pressed over your mouth to stop the scr—"

"Cole," she interrupted. "Please." The word begged his silence, his understanding. Her mind was already torturing her with the images, she didn't need them described aloud as well.

They were perched on a section of the battlements, having finally finished moving everyone and everything into the keep. Cole had been making everyone but Tara forget he was helping; she told him that was okay for now. She knew there would be an argument with Vivienne later, once he began revealing himself. The mage didn't know he'd followed them to Skyhold, and Tara was certain she'd be as disapproving now as she was when they first encountered him.

But Tara would not refuse his help or companionship if it was being freely offered, and he'd given her no reasons not to trust him. In fact, she rather liked him; he reminded her of herself – always straddling two worlds, never sure what he was or where he belonged, but still trying to help people. If only she'd known him then…

"You relive it… Why?" he asked, meeting her with those depthless eyes of his, staring down inside her in a way that made her shiver. He appeared almost like an average adolescent boy in an oversized hat, except for the haunting glaze to his irises.

Tara looked at him sadly. "I… It…" She didn't know how to explain it to him, why it haunted her, why her pain was so prevalent again. It _had _been years. She'd already been through the screwed up part, the haunted part, the part where she couldn't be touched and she barely spoke and she spent hours lying on the chantry floor praying for the Maker to let her speak to her mother again. That was supposed to be over now; she'd chosen a new life, chosen to move past the darkness and live again. But then the Commander made her _remember him._

"Golden hair, solemn, shield angled downward, the word catches in your throat as he turns, _Templar_… Cullen? You're afraid of Cullen?" Cole pulled the images out of her mind easily, hardly even knowing he was doing it.

Tara thought that was probably the easiest way for them to communicate anyway, since she could no more describe her feelings to him than he could understand her words. Perhaps the feelings themselves were clearer if he experienced them himself.

She focused on the last week, when the Commander pulled her onto his horse, mentally pushing the image towards Cole.

"The smell of horseflesh and boot polish. How does he always stay so clean? Foot almost catches when you swing it over, his hand wrapped around your forearm. Suddenly, too close, legs wrapped around him pressed against, and his earthy, metallic scent is almost overpowering. Usually it reminds you of home, but now, too much, too much. Can't breathe. He's in your head again. The pain from before and… I understand now," Cole said. "He reminds you of the Templar who hurt you."

"Sometimes," she sighed, rolling her neck tiredly. "But I don't want him to. I know that he's different. Better."

"How do you know?"

She looked at him curiously. Was he testing her? "He has sincere eyes."

Cole nodded as if that explained everything.

"And he feeds stray dogs."

"Hollith _never _fed stray dogs," Cole agreed, having plucked the name out of her mind along with the memory of her attacker. It made her pointed ears twitch nervously to hear it again. "I could make you forget him. Then you wouldn't be afraid of Cullen and it wouldn't hurt you."

The offer was tempting, Tara had to admit. To have her demons erased… to be free to be happy again… Maker was that _really _the offer a spirit of compassion would make her? Because it was far more torture than compassion, knowing she could never accept such an offer.

"Ah, no, this is my burden, and it's important for me to…"

She stopped when she heard the booted footfalls climbing the stairs behind them.

"Herald," Cassandra said, rounding the corner with an eager intensity on her face.

_Here it comes, _Tara thought, preparing herself. She'd had a feeling for a while that they were planning to make her leadership more official. And, while it was not in her power to refuse, she'd been hoping for more time.

"We need you for a... important meeting." The dark haired Seeker smiled mischievously, turning around and motioning for Tara to follow.

_Maker, she's a terrible liar._

Tara shot a look at Cole, knowing full well that he hadn't let Cassandra see him. He shrugged, getting up to follow her down the steps, feet soundless on the stone.

When Tara got to the bottom, he'd disappeared.

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><p>"Inquisitor," Cullen said, nodding in greeting without looking up from his paperwork. He hadn't really looked at her since their little ceremony, naming her Inquisitor. She didn't know why that bothered her.<p>

"Commander."

Tara set her back against the door, crossing her arms casually. She was content to wait for his attention.

After several long minutes, he laid down the report he'd been writing and fixed his warm eyes on her. "Is there something I can do for you?" he seemed slightly bemused by her presence, the corner of his mouth quirking.

Since her conversation with Cole, she'd come to the conclusion that it was unacceptable that she was still being plagued by Hollith's betrayal. _How _was she supposed to save all of Thedas from a darkspawn, magister hybrid, if she couldn't ride on a horse with a man (who she actually respected and maybe even trusted) without getting the willies?

_By facing your fears, _she answered herself, meeting the Commander's golden eyes with care and purpose. "Yes." The tone she began with was fairly light-hearted, but she worried he could sense the tension behind it. The last thing she needed was for him to realize why she stiffened when he came near; no good could come of that discovery. "Varric has requested that I tell you to 'stop working so sodding hard, and come have a round with him.'"

He raised an inquiring eyebrow, smirk sliding into place. "Oh? I wasn't aware you'd taken on the role of Varric's messenger."

Her face flushed. "Well, I…" she began, embarrassed that she'd come there with such a shoddy reason. "I thought I'd join you," she offered, trying to stifle the blush that was quickly spreading to her neck.

_Nice save, imbecile. _She hadn't had any intention of joining them. She was trying to ease into this, whatever she intended this to be, not give herself an incredibly uncomfortable afternoon and a bout of nightmares.

"Now that _is _tempting," he murmured, smiling almost to himself, realizing too late what he'd said.

It was his turn to blush.

"Why, Commander, I didn't know you were such a shameless flirt," she teased.

He smirked at her abashedly, an embarrassed chuckle forcing its way out. "I assure you—"

"Commander!" One of his soldiers interrupted, barging through the left side door, slamming it into the far wall.

"Yes?" Cullen looked slightly annoyed at being cut off, although that fell away quickly when he saw the urgency on the other man's face.

"There's a situation in the courtyard." Cullen was immediately on his feet. "And we can't find the Inquis—"

"Present," Tara piped up.

The soldier jumped, turning towards her. "The, er, spirit that brought the Grand Chancellor—"

"Ah," she nodded, "I was wondering when we'd have this fight." A tired sigh escaped her lips, as she turned to open the door she'd been leaning on. "No rest for the wicked," she mumbled, stepping out into the dank afternoon air.

Hearing the Commander's footfalls rounding his desk to follow her made her body tense. He still moved like a Templar, purposefully, quietly. His stride commanded attention and respect, but was vastly different from the brash march of a soldier or the confident lilt of a noble. They held their power in a different place.

Hollith had the same air about him, the same step, and it unnerved her hearing it again approaching from behind.

"No need to accompany me, Commander," she said too quickly, whipping back around to face him.

_He's not here. He's not here. He's not here, _she told herself, urging her heart to calm. _Look at his eyes._

Her body slowly responded to the order, sliding up from the chest plate of Cullen's armor to the warm amber of his eyes, thinly lined in confusion and concern.

_Sincere, _she concluded, for the umpteenth time, more a reminder than anything that he was a very different man from the one who hurt her.

"I…" She recognized his uncertainty, though his voice quickly grew confident. "It is no trouble, Inquisitor." He waved off what he'd seen as she stared back at him, the fear she was certain he'd caught, and led the way from his office.


	3. Interruptions

**Thank you to those who reviewed! I appreciate your support and will be getting back to you all personally. I've just been so preoccupied writing this chapter, I haven't wanted to divide my attention! ;)**

**Hope you all enjoy it! I would love to hear from more of you.**

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**Edit: I've been asked to put up warnings before chapters that discuss Tara's sexual assault, so WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT DISCUSSED. Hope that's helpful :)**

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><p>Chapter 3 – Interruptions<p>

"You let it stay?!"

Tara practically jumped out of her skin, not having heard the door to the war room open, and therefore not expecting the snarling elf in her ear.

"By the Black City, Sera! You scared the shit out of me!" she exclaimed, putting a hand over her hammering heart.

"Because _IT'S _hanging about my room!" the elven archer fired back, looking more disturbed than Tara had seen her in a while.

The new Inquisitor had been trying to get some work done, to coordinate the Inquisition's spheres of influence and troop movements before she set off for the Exalted Plains. It hadn't been going well before the interruption – she'd been moving pawns around for an hour in an utter haze, unable to focus. Then, with Sera having a hissy fit that could take any number of hours to decipher, Tara knew it was utterly hopeless.

She sank to the floor, her back to the war table, exhausted.

"Explain," Tara commanded, eyes closed. She'd just returned from Crestwood the previous afternoon, having worked for over a week to clear the area of undead, deal with the rift that had sprung up in the middle of the lake, and find Hawke's Warden contact.

"It. Is. Frigging. Creepy."

"What is?"

"_It."_

She opened her eyes, fixing a furiously tired look on Sera. "_What?" _she asked, voice pure ice.

Sera crossed her arms and began mumbling under her breath, "Maferath's hairy arse this knife eared bitch with her fancy sodding title making me work with a bunch of bigtits and a creepy as shite demon kid—"

"Cole? This is about Cole?" Tara interrupted, venom still laced through her voice. When she set off in search of the Warden, she'd elected to bring the strange boy with her, trying to avoid further conflict in her absence. Apparently, Sera hadn't realized that he was still working with them, until the group returned.

"It's not a person. It doesn't get a name."

Tara sighed, watching the blond elf twist her fingers in the way she'd come to recognize meant she was scared. "Sera, he helped us escape Haven with our lives, and he's been nothing but kind and helpful since then. Whether you think he's a person or not, isn't it enough that he's on our side?"

"But it's a _demon, _innit? Fade shit can't leave the Fade without getting demonfied. That's what prickle bitch said." Tara had come to understand that when Sera said 'prickle bitch' she was referring to either Cassandra or Vivienne; considering the subject matter, she assumed this time it was Vivienne. "So it can't be on our side, cause demons are only evil, so it's on Corypatuss's side. Which means we kill it."

Tara placed a hand over her face exasperatedly. "You can't kill Cole, Sera."

The other elf looked aghast. "_I _don't want to kill it! What if it possesses me?!" Her face brightened as another thought occurred to her. "I want _you_ to kill it with your epic Herald hand thingy!"

"We talked about this. The anchor can't be weaponi—"

"But it sucks up demons, right? That's what we need!" Tara was getting increasingly frustrated with her elven companion.

"It only did that _once, _and I was—"

"Inquisitor!" the door to the war room was flung against the far wall, as the out of breath messenger barged in.

"WHAT?" Tara roared, having found that she was at her breaking point.

The man, dressed in the garb of Leliana's scouts, flinched back through the door frame, retreating as he conveyed the message. "Crestwood's former Mayor was just brought in and has been placed in the dungeons. Ambassador Montilyet needs you to sit in judgment."

The man turned and walked quickly from the slowly shutting door to the war room. "And that couldn't _wait?" _Tara hollered after him, watching the man jump and increase his pace.

She sighed, certain Josephine had heard her outburst from her office.

She was actually impressed with how fast Mayor Dedrick had been apprehended. She'd sent word back to Skyhold after discovering his absence, and in turn, his guilt, since she'd needed several more days to find the Warden, but she had not expected such a swift response from Leliana's network.

"Is that that the blighted arse biscuit who flooded that town full of people?" Sera asked, a scowl darkening her features.

Tara stood, brushing off the Orlesian tunic Joesphine had given her. The woman had practically designed a whole new wardrobe for the elf, after all of her belongings were destroyed in Haven. Thankfully, everything was fairly practical, if a little too flashy, so Tara put up with most of it. That day, she was wearing one of her favorite outfits – a deep green tunic with an embroidered belt and black wool leggings with her leather hunting boots. The green was striking with her red hair, and the outfit usually made her feel beautiful and powerful, but she was too worn to enjoy it that day.

"Yes," she finally answered Sera, watching as the woman clenched her fists and stomped from the room, muttering curses under her breath, and something about "teaching him to mess with little people."

_That'll be trouble, _Tara thought, making a mental note to talk to Sera again later, and maybe even ask Cullen to send extra guards to the dungeon, when her head wasn't pounding so insistently.

For the moment, she needed a nice, long nap.

She managed to make it to her quarters mostly unhindered, though Josephine tried to elicit her into conversation on her way through her office. Tara had waved one hand, a motion universally known to mean "not now", placing the other over her splitting headache in a half apology.

_Maker, when was the last time I slept? _She thought, scurrying through Skyhold's main hall, ignoring Varric's ill-timed joke about her haggard appearance, and the way Solas's eyes burned into her as she passed him, as if he knew more about her than she would ever want him to.

Finally, she was able to collapse on top of her too plush bed, not even bothering to drag the blankets over top of her before falling asleep.

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><p>She dreamt of Therinfal Redoubt.<p>

She _always_ dreamt of Therinfal Redoubt.

She had never been there of course – she'd chosen to seek out the mages instead, intimidated by what the Templars represented to her personally, while also hoping the rebel mages could give some insight into what happened to her as a child, why the elves had chosen to abandon her.

That they couldn't help her was not really a surprise; no one had ever been able to pinpoint the cause of her unconventionally sudden magical ability – the kind that turned a childhood nightmare into a fire that killed her mother, and disappeared almost as suddenly as it came.

Still, the disappointment of yet another dead end made what had occurred at Therinfal Redoubt, while she was in Redcliffe dealing with the mages, weigh on her even more heavily. Cole had relayed the events to her, as best he could, as his dealings with the Envy demon that was masquerading as the Lord Seeker were not direct. It had known he was there, trying to help the Templars get away or put those who couldn't at peace, but Cole primarily avoided it, unsure what would happen if he was caught. "I don't want to be like that. I told it once that it didn't have to be. It could go back, like I did. But it got angry. Attacked, tried to make me be like it," Cole had told her. "I stopped helping it after that."

"But you helped the Templars? Did any of them make it out? Could they be brought here?" she'd asked. She longed for survivors to right the ache in her chest at having damned so many to a red lyrium induced fate.

"No, all of them were turned. I couldn't help them." There were tears in his eyes when he said that. They fuelled the guilt in her stomach at her unfair distrust of Templars.

And now every time she closed her eyes, she dreamed of their deaths – the ones who refused to accept what was going on being slaughtered, their heads placed on pikes in the courtyard, and the ones who'd been tricked or pressured into taking the new lyrium turning into monsters, losing themselves, their humanity. At first she was a passive observer like always, but her grief for their loss this time pushed her into the scene, and suddenly she stood before the Lord Seeker in the keep's main hall, his eyes glowing a demonic green, matching the color of her mark.

"You killed us," he said, baring his blade at her. "This is _your_ fault!"

"No," she begged, tears making her vision blur. "No, I didn't know. I would've helped you too!"

"Liar!" Suddenly, his voice was no longer of one man, but many, layered together, speaking in unison. "We see your heart, your love, your _hate. _You hate us for one man's betrayal."

"I don't… I don't ha—"

"Would you even save _him?"_ The many dead Templars asked, gathering around her, their eyes all a glowing green. "We know how you respect him, how your heart races when he's near." The crowd of dead men parted to reveal the Commander, lying in a pool of blood in the dirt, struggling to stand. "Would you let him die?"

She watched as he drew to his knees, revealing a broken arrow shaft protruding from a gap in the armor at his shoulder. "Cullen," she whispered, surprised by her pain at seeing him hurt.

"Inquisitor?" he groaned, clutching his wounded shoulder and standing unsteadily. He'd been bashed in the head as well, the blood darkening his golden hair and running into his right eye.

"Just… hold on." She tried to make her way towards him but the path closed, and suddenly she was staring into the glowing eyes of the Lord Seeker once again.

"You would go to him?" His head tilted to the side in a way that made the hairs on the back of her neck raise.

She scowled at having her way blocked, the ever changing nature of the her jaunts in the Fade frustrating her immensely. "I would save him!" she snarled.

"But what about _me_?" a voice came from behind her, a voice that sickened her soul. She spun around to meet with its owner.

"Hollith." Her voice was filled with disgust.

His dark eyes crinkled, and she realized he was smiling. "Hello, Taranari." His grin was dangerous, like a coiled snake. His eyes traced her hungrily, and she shivered, reminded of the night he took what he wanted.

"Get out of my head." She glared at him, imagining his disintegration, the satisfaction it would bring. She was surprised when she realized she felt no fear, only anger. "I'm not afraid of you anymore," she said, more to herself than to him.

"I love it when you put on a brave face," he replied, sauntering towards her, the Templar emblem on his chest plate flashing in the light. She stiffened when he reached out a hand and ran it across her cheek like he had once before. "It only makes it sweeter when I _break you_," he whispered, as if it was some intimate secret between them. He talked about raping her the way someone might tell her they loved her.

_That, _more than anything, made her stomach turn. She almost smiled at the realization, at what she saw in him now. "You're nothing," she told him, shaking her head sadly. "And you can't break me, not anymore."

She turned to walk away from him, back to where Cullen had been, but he grabbed her wrist. She looked back to find the Commander's gauntleted hand, rather than Hollith's, wrapped around her forearm, stopping her from leaving, just like he had done the other day.

"What happened in Haven…" They were the same words from that day as well, a memory. "You could have died. I shouldn't have let you go," he said softly, looking like he was fighting shame from reaching his face.

She replied like she had before. "You couldn't have stopped me. I wanted you to let me go."

He pulled her closer, looking into her eyes with an intensity that was almost inappropriate when they were standing in the courtyard. "But _I didn't_." There was a great significance in those words, and Tara was just beginning to grasp what that was.

But as soon she saw it, it had been replaced by something else, a cold civility speaking of self-reproach. He dropped her arm like it had burned him, recoiling from her. "I promise you, that won't happen again," he said stiffly, turning away.

"Now do you understand?" the collective Templar voices asked, their faces reappearing around her.

"I already knew Cullen was different," she said, confused.

A collective grimace. "You know nothing."

Then, she woke up, shivering atop her freezing bed with the evening light fading through her open windows.


	4. Firelight

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**As for this chapter, it includes a lot of Elvish, which can be deciphered by going to the wiki page on the Elven language if you wanna have a little fun puzzling through it, or by scrolling to the bottom where I've included the rough translations.**

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><p>Chapter 4 – Firelight<p>

"Era seranna ma, Keeper. Ar andaran atish'an. Emma Taranari Lavellan in an Free Marches." Tara had a friendly, relaxed smile on her face as she approached the Keeper, though her insides were churning. She'd never approached another Dalish clan before, and without the Vallaslin, she was unsure she would pass as one of the Elvhen. She barely knew any Elvish, and had spent almost all of it on her first sentence. And, to top it all off, she'd left her companions on an adjacent hill while she went to meet the Keeper alone, making her feel all the more exposed without them at her back.

"Aneth ara, Taranari. Emma Keeper Hawen. What brings you to Dirthavaren?" the Keeper said genially enough, though she could see him eyeing her face suspiciously and his stance spoke of distrust. His brow was etched in a complex tribute to Dirthamen, the secret keeper, and she gritted her teeth imagining what she must look like in comparison.

"Ar garas Tarasy'lan Te'las," she explained, having practiced Skyhold's Elvish name several times with Solas on the journey to the plains. He'd insinuated that claiming such a place would earn the Inquisition respect among the elves, but she wasn't so sure. "Emma in Inquisition."

"Ahhhhh," the Keeper sighed, crossing his arms. "You're _that _one. I was wondering why you lacked the Vallaslin yet knew our language. It makes sense now."

Tara cocked her head, worried she'd blown it. "I don't know what you mean."

"I've heard of you, _Inquisitor_," he replied, somewhat accusingly. "You will find no help for your _hellathen,_" his voice laced with sarcasm, "here." The Keeper's decorated forehead creased and his nostrils flared in a superior sneer.

His tone itself was a slap across her face, the sneer adding insult to injury. "Atisha, Hahren. Have I wronged you in some way?" she tried to keep her voice as respectful and oblivious as possible, but the Keeper just stiffened at her further use of the language.

"You masquerade as one of my people and ask for peace? It will not be tolerated!" he bellowed, calling the attention of the rest of his clan, and in a moment she was surrounded by armed and armored Elvhen. Looking at the faces, she was overwhelmed by how alien they were, marked with symbols she hadn't had time to learn, and pinched in expressions of anger that had no cause in her mind.

She breathed deeply, forcing her hands from twitching towards the daggers at her waist. "I meant no offense. My blood is Dalish, but I was abandoned at a young age because I was thought to have magic," she spoke calmly, evenly. "When it was proven that was a mistake, I eventually was able to return to my clan, but it was too late for me to get the Vallaslin. I am not a pretender." Though she spoke with conviction, she did not believe her words. She _felt _false, standing amidst them. She knew very well she did not belong.

Many of the clan began to relax at her words; they'd known a few Dalish who had to be left behind for their gifts, Tara was certain. But the Keeper remained stiff and suspicious. "If you are as you say, I will let you prove it."

He proceeded to give her a number of tasks she could perform to gain the favor of the clan, essentially ransoming her validation as an elf for a few errands. She was sickened, though she parted as respectfully as she could, only letting her scowl loose when she had returned to her companions.

"What happened?" Iron Bull asked, seeing her expression.

She kicked up a clod of dirt and grass angrily. "They're elvhen'alas, that's what happened!" she shouted, knowing she was far enough from the clan that they would not hear.

Solas cocked his head knowingly. "They believe you are a harallen." It wasn't a question; he saw it in her eyes, as they filled with angry tears.

"And for those of us who don't speak Elvish?" Blackwall asked.

"Harallen is a trickster or traitor," Solas explained, his voice as mild as ever. He was unfazed by her pain.

She tilted her head back, blinking furiously in an attempt to contain the tears. Crying in front of people infuriated her. "They gave us some favors to do for them, but I…"

She'd meant to proclaim that she wasn't going to associate with or do anything for them, but looking out over the plains and feeling the enormity of the area around her gave her pause. These were people who needed her help, and she gave help when it was asked for, no matter how unkind or ungrateful those who asked were. It would be spite to deny them completely, when she would swallow her pride to help a caravan of humans.

"I think we should wait until we've dealt with all the battlefields in the area."

She watched Solas watch her make that decision, and the surprise that passed over his normally passive features was gratifying. The other two men merely patted her shoulders, mumbling apologies about the arse faced clan, and how they would do a really bad job with all of their requests.

* * *

><p>That night they made camp in a small clearing near the Elvhen cemetery Keeper Hawen requested be cleared of demons. They'd spent the remainder of the day burning bodies and killing Arcane Horrors at the various battlegrounds in the area, as well as marking locations of issues that could be dealt with later at Skyhold, such as the collapsed bridge.<p>

It was while sitting around the fire that Tara realized that it was probably odd that she so often chose to travel long distances with groups entirely of men. Or at least, it probably _looked _odd to outsiders.

_The things they must say about me, _she wondered, glancing around at the trio of men she was sharing a meal with.

"What do you think people think of me, always travelling with men?" she asked them, setting her bowl in her lap.

Bull perked up, looking away from the stew he'd been loudly devouring. "They probably think we take turns pitching a tent with you, Boss," he rumbled in his deep Qunari voice, wiggling his eyebrows for effect. Tara laughed.

Solas didn't get the joke. "We _do _take turns pitching the tents," he said, eliciting roars of laughter from the other three.

The elf still looked confused when Blackwall sobered, getting a wicked look in his eyes, and asked, "Who's opinion are you worried about, my lady?"

"Hmmm?" she tried to play it off, hoping the firelight would hide the blush creeping up her face. None of the men thought she was so innocent; even Solas smirked at her attempt to pretend.

"We know you must be sweet on someone, with all these _fine_ fellows around," Bull said, locking his fingers behind his head and leaning back against his pack, as if to display his personal fineness.

"I would venture a guess, but I don't think it would go well for me," Solas teased, smirk widening. Tara had told him about her dream, starring Cullen, among others, in the hope that he could help her decipher it, and she was sure that's where his mind was wandering.

"Ah, no fun elf," Blackwall exclaimed, tossing his empty bowl in Solas' direction.

The mage caught it deftly, placing it with the other dishes to be washed before they retired. Then, he turned to Tara. "But since we're on the subject, why _do _you always travel with men?"

This caused some snickering from the other two, but Tara could tell Solas was serious. He really wanted to know.

"Well I guess… Shut up, you two," she interrupted herself to scold Blackwall and Bull, who had begun muttering more dirty jokes under their breath. "It's because it's just _easier. _Sera is incredibly skilled, but taking her with me means babysitting her, which I don't always have the energy for. So, if I think I'll need an archer, Varric is usually the logical choice."

"Plus, _Bianca," _Bull said dreamily. He had an infatuation with Varric's crossbow.

"Yes," she agreed, laughing. "She packs a hell of a punch."

"I'm curious to hear your reasoning on Cassandra and Vivienne," Solas prodded, drawing her back to the conversation.

Tara sighed, leaning back to look up at the clouded evening sky; the sun had just set and the stars were beginning to wink out. "Cassandra's great – smart, powerful, a little bit in your face… which is how I like my women," she directed the last comment at Bull who grinned at her jest. "But when she's in the party, I never feel completely in charge. It's like being her prisoner is still hanging over my head and I can't fully relax. If we'd met under different circumstances, I think we'd be quite inseparable… Now, Vivienne is one hell of a mage, but she's also quite the diplomat. And I'd rather have her at Skyhold helping Josephine than out here with me grousing about sleeping in tents and bathing in strea—"

"We bathe in the field?" Bull interrupted.

Another bout of uproarious laughter followed; even Solas chuckled good naturedly.

"Well _I _do," she finally answered, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye.

Blackwall twirled his beard between his fingers. "That must be why you're in charge."

"Yeah, mark of a true leader. You never smell like a dead goat like the rest of us," Bull offered, his good eye crinkled in a half smile.

"I _never _smell like a dead goat," Solas insisted, looking frustrated that someone would imply such a thing about him.

It went on like that until they retired to their tents, leaving Blackwall on first watch.

* * *

><p>It was the first of many nights that she didn't dream about the Templars her choice had condemned. A more distant demon had returned to haunt her subconscious.<p>

Seeing the Dalish aravels again, as different as they were from the one she'd been raised in, had brought back old, forgotten images.

Images of a fire.

In her dream, she was trapped in her childhood bed, blanket tangled around her small body, screaming for help as her aravel went up in flames around her. Heat pressed into her from all sides, the air burning her lungs as she cried, cringing every time the structure crackled and collapsed with fire. Her mother was struggling towards her, burning herself in the smoky haze as she tried to rescue her daughter. Tara could barely see through the tears streaming from her eyes at the overwhelming smoke.

"Mamae!" she shouted, struggling until she was free from the blanket and could clamber out of the bunk type bed she slept in.

It was then that she realized _she _was on fire. She let out a bloodcurdling scream, watching as the flame licked at her arms; it had not registered that she felt no pain. Her mind was clouded with fear.

"Da'len! Da'len where are you?" her mother's strong voice cut through the haze, coughing as the smoke stung her lungs.

"Mamae, I'm burning!" Tara sobbed, paralyzed where she stood, separated from her mother by pieces of the aravel roof that had caved in.

"No! I'm coming! Help me find y—"

But her mother's words were cut off as another section of the roof collapsed on top of her.

"MAMAE!" Tara screamed, knowing she was gone.

Her mother was _gone_.

She started crying in earnest, falling to her knees amidst the fire and cinders and sobbing into her hands. She was so afraid, so utterly, completely terrified. The loneliness of being without her was absolute and overwhelming; she tried to fight it with thoughts of her mother's voice, her warmth, her comfort. Tara wanted to be with her; nothing else mattered.

When she heard the shouts from outside, when the rest of the roof began to fall, she curled around her knees and let the flames that didn't burn cover her body. She slipped away into a pale blue sleep, hoping that her mamae would be there, that she could follow her.

* * *

><p>Tara startled awake, blinking up at the canvas roof of her tent trying to get her bearings. <em>Was that how it really happened? <em>she wondered. She was only six when the fire took her mother and her clan from her; she remembered very little of the event, save the loneliness of losing her entire family.

She shouldn't have survived the fire in their aravel, especially since it originated in her cot, but when her clansmen began to sift through the wreckage, they'd found her wrapped in a powerful barrier spell, a spell she'd unknowingly cast, according to the Keeper.

The last spell she'd ever cast.

Maybe that was the blue light she'd seen in her dream.

She placed a hand to her forehead, wiping away the cold sweat that had beaded there.

Tara had been waking like that almost every night for the past few weeks, her sleep plagued by dreams that she couldn't shake, her subconscious only letting her rest for a few hours before startling her awake again. This might've been the most disturbing she'd had so far.

She opened the flap of her tent, crawling into the cool night air.

She needed to walk it off.

* * *

><p><strong>Elvish Translations:<strong>

**Era seranna ma, Keeper. Ar andaran atish'an. Emma Taranari Lavellan in an Free Marches. - **Excuse me, Keeper. Greetings/I enter this place in peace. I am Taranari Lavellan of the Free Marches.

**Aneth ara, Taranari. Emma Keeper Hawen. - **Greetings, Taranari. I am Keeper Hawen

**Ar garas Tarasy'lan Te'las. - **I come from Skyhold.

**Emma in Inquisition. - **I am with the Inquisition.

**hellathen - **noble struggle

**Atisha, Hahren. - **Peace, Elder.

**elvhen'alas - **dirt elves

**Mamae - **mother

**Da'len - **someone young, innocent, or dear


	5. Lethallan

**Thank you SO MUCH for the favorites, follows, and reviews! I am really enjoying writing this story, and it is so gratifying to know you all are enjoying it too.**

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**And as always, enjoy the chapter! :)**

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><p>Chapter 5 – Lethallan<p>

Hearing the whisper of footsteps behind her, Tara's dagger was at the intruder's throat almost instantly.

She didn't know who she expected it to be – a bandit perhaps?

She'd told Blackwall to go to sleep, she would take over watching the camp, and was pacing around the edges of the dying firelight when someone came up behind her, walking in the sound her footsteps made. If she hadn't paused suddenly, she would not have known they were there.

She shouldn't have been so surprised to find Solas's throat beneath her blade, but a small gasp escaped her lips before she lowered the weapon. She wondered if he knew how close she'd come to killing him.

"I am sorry, Lethallan," he whispered, sounding more emotional than she'd ever heard him. He seemed not to be referring to merely startling her.

He'd never called her "Lethallan" before.

"You almost got yourself killed," she replied, sheathing her dagger with a wry smile that didn't reach her eyes.

He looked at her sympathetically, which was a surprise in and of itself. "As did you."

"I don't think so," she laughed humorlessly. "I had you just now, admit it."

"I was not referring to just now," he said quietly, still looking at her in a very unnerving way. "I wonder the Fade when I sleep. What does that tell you?"

"Wha—"

It hit her like a hammer.

He'd been watching her dreams. All this time, she'd never considered after the conversation they had in the Fade version of Haven that he would or even _could _enter her dreams again. Now, she understood the knowing glances, the twists of his mouth, the way he seemed completely unfazed when she relayed her dream about the dead Templars from Therinfal Redoubt.

"You were watching," she said numbly, too shocked to even be angry. She had never intended for anyone to find out she'd killed her own mother. _Especially _Solas; his eyes held enough judgment already.

His gaze turned to the ground in apology. "I was."

"How long?" she demanded, working up to anger.

His abashed face answered her question. "Always?"

He nodded. "A small number over a long period of time."

"Do you watch all of us?" Her rage was beginning to bubble up, coloring her tone.

"No." Solas sighed, studying his hands. "The others are more guarded; I am not allowed to see what they experience. You are surprisingly open. I have never experienced another's dreams like yours." His voice was calm as ever, but she heard an edge behind it; whether respect or shame, she could not tell.

Tara scoffed. "Am I supposed to be happy about that? You invaded my privacy! If I had known—"

"I know, and for that I am sorry," he interrupted, eyes boring into hers. "I did not know it was your dream until it was already over. I did not seek it out, but found it wandering the Fade. I have tried to avoid your dreams since realizing my intrusion, but it is hard to recognize your subconscious when we travel; I thought it was a memory."

The fire drained out of her. "It _is _a memory," she sighed, turning away from him. "One of the only ones I have of my mother… Isn't that ironic?" She walked further from the light of the fire, staring up at the dome of sky, a great sadness settling over her.

"I do not think I follow."

"My sharpest memory of my mother is the night I killed her," she said without feeling, tracing the Elven constellation Assan, the archer, with her eyes.

Solas placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. It was the first time he'd touched her outside of a battle scenario.

"I… have felt your pain… but it is not your fault. You should not blame yourself," he said softly, removing his hand when he finished speaking. He sounded surprisingly… guilty. She wondered at the cause; was it merely because he had witnessed her secrets without her permission?

Either way, she appreciated the gesture. "Thank you, Solas."

He cleared his throat, as if to change the subject. "If I may ask," he began, returning to his normal inquisitive candor, "do you know what happened to your magic?"

Tara looked away from the stars to smile at him sadly. "I have no idea. I never cast another spell, nor ever knew I _had _casted any. It's quite the unsolved mystery." She hugged her arms against the cold, having left the heavy leather duster she normally wore over her tunic and leggings in her tent.

His brow furrowed. "I have sensed mana in you before, but thought it was just a trick of the anchor. Now I am not so certain." He was staring pensively out into the night, the sounds beyond their circle of fire wild and unknowable; it occurred to her that she might describe the elven mage similarly. "You sought out the rebel mages to this end?"

"Partially, but they told me what every mage before has told me. Apparently, it's like I have the ability to possess mana, but am completely drained of it, like a smited mage, except permanent." She looked at Solas; he was studying her again. She hated it when he looked at her like a specimen, some Fade ruin he could unlock the secrets of.

"Yes… it does seem similar, but I am not convinced it is so simple…" He met her eyes again, this time an earnestness that she rarely saw in his features. "Why did you not come to me, Lethallan?"

She was shocked that he'd taken that route of questioning, and unprepared to explain her reasons. He _was _the only person who she'd met who could be called an expert on the Fade, and thus a prime resource for this sort of problem. "I… I didn't want anyone to know. Cassandra is the only one who I've told about my past, and I omitted…"

Tara trailed off when she saw how he was shaking his head; there was disappointment as well as understanding in it. "You do not trust me." It was not a question.

She pursed her lips, mask hardening. "Trust is hard to come by. I try not to hand it out without cause."

"Have I not given you cause?" Solas bristled. "My help, my service, my _life_ if required? Is that not _enough?" _he asked, voice straining against emotions she couldn't decipher.

She shook her head. "Your interest in the Breach and the anchor is your own. I… our partnership is a means to an end."

There was an expression on his face she'd never seen before, and she didn't know how to describe it. He looked somewhat chagrined, as well as angry, but there was more there. So many pieces of him that she couldn't put together.

"Fenedhis! You do not understand!" he snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to calm himself. Then, more softly, "You cannot understand…"

Tara ran a hand through her hair, the dark red strands already tousled from her fitful sleep. "Help me to." She tried to keep the demand out of her voice, but his remoteness frustrated her. She just wanted the _truth._

_All _of it.

"I cannot." Tara opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "_However, _I feel that I have wronged you by learning of your past, and refusing to share my own. I would make that right."

She crossed her arms, sinking into a hip, as if to say, _And?_

His mouth pursed, like it didn't want to utter the words, but his eyes spoke of conviction. "Allow me to help you solve this mystery of your disappearing magic." He paused, wringing his hands in a moment of indecision. "In this way, I will prove my respect and faith in you."

While Tara was surprised by the words he used to describe his opinion of her, she did her best not to show it, studying him with utmost scrutiny. She'd always been good at recognizing when people were being false, especially since her experience with Hollith. That, more than anything, taught her to trust her instincts.

And her instincts told her that Solas was being as honest as he could be with her. He had darkness inside of him, darkness he didn't feel he could share. Yet, he didn't deny it; he tried to make amends for his mistakes.

She decided then that he was worth trying, worth the effort of caring about.

Even if it turned to dirt, she would let herself be his friend. Even if that's not what he wanted or thought he needed. It was time to accept the elf for who he was.

"Deal," she said with a small smile, holding out her hand to shake.

* * *

><p>Varric could hear the Inquisitor's voice inside the elven mage's study, bidding him goodnight. It gave the dwarf an unpleasant taste in his mouth. She'd been coming and going that way so frequently lately, he had begun to worry that there was something happening there.<p>

And by the stone, _that _would be bad for everyone. Varric knew _very well _what happened when powerful women got involved with broody mages; he'd seen the damage it could cause.

When the red haired elf emerged from the door beside the fireplace he frequented, he was still deep in thought, an uncharacteristically broody furrow in his brow. The Inquisitor wished a nearby stone cutter (who was chiseling designs on one of the repaired columns) a nice night, saving Varric for second, having noticed his expression before he could shift it back to one of amused apathy.

"Something on your mind, Varric?" she asked as she approached, intuitive as ever. She could catch his eyes for half a second and know if something was bothering him; it was unnerving and incredibly frustrating. He didn't like not being able to lie to her.

He sighed, looking into the fire as he answered, hoping that would protect him from her lie detector. "I'm just worried about Hawke."

Her amber eyes flashed knowingly, and he was certain he'd been caught. "Is that _all?" _She quirked an eyebrow suspiciously.

"Of course," he lied, meeting her hard stare with one of his own.

It was often a battle of wills between them.

After several moments she groaned, sinking into the armchair beside his own. "_Fine." _She drew the word out, making it two syllables, then quickly changed the subject. "So, have you seen Blackwall's beard? He let Scout Harding _braid _it!"

He knew that she was tricking him, pretending to let him off the hook so easily. She'd figured out that if she acted like she didn't really want to know something, he would cave and tell her. Every time. He just couldn't resist.

"Yeah, it's awful but, look… I know you've been visiting baldy a lot lately, and I—"

"Solas?" She quirked an eyebrow, already smirking at her successful reverse manipulation. "I wasn't aware I had been spending more time speaking with him than usual." Her voice was evidently amused, making Varric question himself. He'd expected her to become defensive.

"Well, you're always coming through here, especially since you scouted the Plains, and I hear you talking…" He trailed off, realizing she'd probably be angry at him for listening to her, even though he could rarely make out the actual words. He just recognized that she was speaking.

Instead of getting cross, her face twisted into a smile, as she resisted the urge to laugh at him. "Varric," she began, laughter in her voice despite her efforts at seriousness. "This door you've been staking out leads to many more places than just Solas' atrium – the library, the rookery, Cullen's office—"

She stopped abruptly, realizing she had not referred to Cullen as "the Commander" as she usually did, a look of surprise overtaking her features.

Varric had caught more than the omission of his title, however. The way the elf had said the Commander's name when she wasn't paying attention was almost _tender. _It convinced him that he didn't need be worried about the broody _mage_. The Inquisitor appeared to prefer broody _Templars._

Whether she knew it yet or not, Varric saw the writing on the wall.

"On a first name basis, huh?" the dwarf teased.

"I don't call Leliana or Josephine by their titles," she defended, her voice turning the color he'd expected when he brought up her relationship with Solas.

He chuckled, glad to see the tables turned for once. She was never this addled by anything he said. "It appears my concern was unfounded. Goodnight, Red." It was practically a dismissal, and she stiffened in her seat at his tone.

She stared at him for several moments, her expression alternating between confusion and frustration, before she finally stood, a smirk dominating her mouth once again. "It's nice to know you care, tiny," she said in parting, shaking her head as she walked through the main hall to her quarters.


	6. Doubts

**Welcome back! Hope you're enjoying the story, and can't wait to hear what you think of the new chapter, now that we're getting into more Cullen-y stuff.**

**On a different note, some of you may have noticed I've added trigger warnings to the chapters containing material discussing Taranari's sexual assault that occurs prior to the story's opening. This was due to a request from a guest reviewer (who I'd like to give a shout-out to: thanks for the suggestion, whoever you are!), and will be continued with all future chapters containing said material. **

**I would also like to apologize to anyone who is still following this story who has been negatively affected by the passages discussing the sexual assault; I had not considered that possibility previously. In an effort to rectify this, if anyone still reading has been made uncomfortable by such passages but wants to continue with story, please PM me and I would be happy to send you edited versions of future chapters containing said material, with a G rated summary of the offensive sections. I hope this solution is agreeable to everyone :)**

**Thanks! Back to the angsty goodness.**

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><p>Chapter 6 – Doubts<p>

"Maker, protect her," Cullen whispered a prayer, watching the red haired woman slip out the side door.

She was leaving again, this time for Empress Du Lion, determined to liberate Sahrnia from the Red Templars that had overrun the area before the Orlesian ball they were all dreading.

As much as Cullen agreed that it must be done, he struggled watching her leave again, when she'd just returned from the Hissing Wastes a few days before. Having read her reports of riding for hours through vicious sandstorms and parching heat to root out the sparse Venatori activity in the area, and knowing that Empress Du Lion was a frozen, ice-scape just as treacherous, he wished she'd had more than a few days of fitful rest and piles of paperwork in between the two. However, it couldn't be helped.

_And she's the Inquisitor, _he reminded himself. _She can handle herself._

He was constantly fighting with himself about that, constantly trying to reconcile the woman he'd met beneath the glow of the Breach with the woman she'd made herself into out of necessity, the Inquisitor. She'd been softer when they met, had an innocence to her that watching Haven burn had stripped away. She used to oversee the recruits with him, spar with him to demonstrate the adaptations you had to make when fighting someone trained in speed. She'd smile maddeningly when she won, even moreso when she lost, making him promise her a rematch.

Now… her smiles were much rarer, and fleeting. She never came to the training grounds except to talk to Cassandra or Iron Bull, and when he reminded her once of the match he owed her, she reminded him of all the work they both had to do.

But what bothered him most was the look in her eyes when he got too close to her.

_The fear._

He wondered if she knew what had happened at the Circle tower, if she was afraid he was mentally unstable, and that's why she flinched away from his casual touch. He saw how she interacted with the other men; she'd hook arms with Solas, dragging him out of his mural walled atrium into the fragrant garden, she'd train with Iron Bull, letting him teach her Qunari fighting techniques, and she'd playfully tug on Blackwall's beard to get him to lighten up if he was brooding over his dinner. Varric and Dorian also were treated with the same easy affection, and she practically doted upon Cole at times.

Yet, she recoiled from Cullen.

_Perhaps it's that they travel together. She just doesn't know you as well, _he tried to reason with himself, a conversation he'd had many times.

He had been trying to maintain a professional distance, to respect her boundaries, but he found that he _missed _training with her, her easy smile, the way her eye jumped when she was irritated with someone… He had to practically wrench himself away from thoughts of her sometimes, in order to get any work done.

Especially after she'd stammeringly told him she was happy he'd made it out of Haven safely.

_That _little nugget had led to him making her more uncomfortable than ever before, practically throwing himself at her in apology for letting her stay behind, to potentially die to save them all. He'd seen the way she swallowed nervously when he instinctively tugged on her arm to pull her closer to him, trying to convey how torn he'd been. The anxiety she'd felt became apparent as her breath began to heave through her small form, and he immediately released her, apologizing for his impropriety.

Cullen blushed at the memory, ashamed of his behavior. He needed to work out whatever was going on between them before he made more of a fool of himself. She obviously no longer either wanted or could handle the comradery they'd shared before the move to Skyhold, and he _had _to accept that and stop dwelling on it all the time.

Or at least, that's what he told himself.

Pushing away from his over cluttered desk, he made his way down to the stables to see her party off. He hoped that knowing who she was taking with her would ease his mind somewhat.

As he approached, he could see Blackwall (whose courser was saddled and tied to a nearby post) helping Varric to saddle his mare, the only mount they had taught to kneel so Varric could climb onto her back. Dorian was already sitting atop the Imperial Warmblood he'd named Tevi (because he said she reminded him of home), and the Inquisitor was saddling her hart – the slender, white one she called Elgar.

She flicked a piece of dark red hair out of her eyes, cooing to the antlered animal and rubbing its neck as she tightened the straps around its stomach. Cullen noticed she didn't put a bridle or bit on it, and he saw her eyeing the stirrups dubiously.

"Too good for reigns, I see!" he called, closing the distance between them, but leaving several feet of space for her peace of mind.

An unexpected smile lit up her face at his interruption, and warmth spread through his chest at the sight of it. "I never use them," she replied, walking around the animal to where he stood. "Elgar here," she scratched the beast affectionately between his ears, "hates bridles, so Dennet helped me train him to respond to vocal commands."

Cullen's jaw practically dropped. "You…what… How did you find the _time?" _he sputtered, amazed. She'd only purchased the animal a few weeks ago and had been in the Hissing Wastes for half of that time.

Taranari laughed, pulling herself onto the back of her steed. "He's a quick learner."

_Taranari, _he mulled over her name in his mind, realizing he liked the way it sounded. He longed to say it aloud, even though propriety dictated he could not.

Varric, having finally gotten into the saddle of his own horse, steered her over, interrupting their conversation. "To what do we owe this send off, Commander? I thought Red just got back from telling you we were leaving." There was a wicked smirk on his face, and his eyes glinted mischievously.

Cullen knew that whatever Varric was up to, it wasn't going to be good for him. "So she did. I came down to discuss the possibility of acquiring more mounts from Amaranthine with Master Dennet," he said flawlessly, having practiced the line on his way to the stables.

Taranari's smile faltered a little at that admission, but Varric merely rolled his eyes, as if he knew that was not entirely the case. "Mhmmm," the dwarf muttered dubiously, shooting a pointed look at the red haired elf, the meaning of which she didn't seem to catch.

Cullen decided it was time to take his leave, before the man felt the need to clarify his suspicions.

"My lady," he said in parting, nodding, as he rounded their band to enter the main portion of the stables, having been standing at the entrance. He had every intention of fulfilling his excuse for seeing her again before she left, so as not to incur further embarrassment for himself.

"Commander," she murmured, nodding in kind, her expression clouded and inscrutable.

He thought she sounded almost sad to see him go, but knew he must be deluding himself.

* * *

><p>Empress Du Lion was a nightmare. The place was positively <em>crawling <em>with red lyrium addled Templars, who also happened to be kidnapping people from Sahrnia, under the command of some damned demon who (according to Michel de Chevin, the chevalier they met outside of the town) was calling himself Imshael and masquerading as human. Michel's information had been good, based on the documents they'd found clearing out the mines, and Tara was ready to move on Suledin keep once reinforcements arrived. Unfortunately, all of the correspondence she'd sent to Skyhold hadn't been answered.

They'd been sitting in their forward most camp, established adjacent to an abandoned tower used to monitor enemy movements, for three days waiting for word from Cullen and Leliana. Tara knew that it should have taken two days at most for the messenger she'd sent to reach Skyhold, and only a few hours for one of Leliana's ravens to return with a reply.

She was worried.

What had happened? Was the messenger merely delayed? Or was something more serious happening at the hold? Did Corypheus attack while she was away?

She'd been chewing on her fingernails for the past several hours, locked in indecision about how she should proceed.

"Well, Red, we're going to have to make a move at some point. What do you want to do?" Varric asked, plopping down on the cold bench-like slab of stone beside her.

She shot him a disapproving glance. Everyone else had noticed her tension and left her well enough alone; Varric just couldn't resist butting in.

"What?" the dwarf said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Don't skewer a poor dwarf for pointing out the obvious!"

She narrowed her eyes, as if to say, _If it was obvious, then why did you have to say it?_

Varric sighed, putting his hands on his knees and leaning forward. "We need to _do something _Red. Those Templars aren't in there planting daisies. People are dying while we sit out here and wait." He was being unusually candid with her, and she wondered when he began criticizing her so openly. She wasn't sure whether to be pleased that he respected her enough to do so, or irritated that he picked the worst possible moment.

"You don't think I know that?" she snapped, rubbing her temples. "But moving forward without back-up will risk all of these," she motioned to the encampment of Inquisition scouts and soldiers," lives. I'm not doing that. I just… I need…"

She trailed off, catching sight of a black blob alighting at the top of the moldering tower next to their camp.

"_That," _she announced, breaking into a run. She was almost positive it was one of Leliana's ravens.

And she was right.

"Just in time for the party," Varric wheezed as she removed the message from the bird's leg. He'd followed her to the top of the tower, but the stairs combined with his shorter step had left him quite out of breath.

Tara ignored him, unrolling the parchment with shaking fingers. Scanning it, a tremendous burden lifted and she sighed gratefully.

"The messenger I sent was attacked by bandits," she read with an inappropriate amount of relief. "Thankfully, one of Leliana's scouting parties found him and relayed the message back to Skyhold." She turned to Varric with a grin. "Reinforcements are on the way!"

Tara pumped a fist in the air, much to the dwarf's amusement, before quickly penning a reply and releasing the raven back through the half collapsed window it had entered through.

"Is _Cullen _coming with them?" Varric teased as they made their way back down the stairs.

She was in such high spirits from the news, that she completely missed his choice of title or the emphasis in his voice. "How did you—" She stopped abruptly, having glanced at his face. "Oh." He had the sneakiest of smiles fixed there.

"So he really _is _coming?" he snickered.

Tara's face reddened considerably. "The Commander is bringing a group of newly converted former Templars to help lay siege to the keep, yes," she said curtly, trying to conceal the embarrassment in her voice.

Varric wasn't convinced. He never was. "And he needed to accompany them, why?"

The message from Leliana had not given an explanation. "He wanted some personal experience with the Red Templar threat, I suppose," she provided. It hadn't sounded nearly as hollow in her head as it did when she said it aloud, and watched the skeptical dwarf's reaction.

It convinced her that, if a look could shrink someone down to the size of a pin, Varric would have been _incredibly _useful on Corypheus' blighted dragon.

As it were, he just made her feel small and utterly foolish.

"He doesn't trust me to do the job," she concluded, head hanging with the realization. She felt so _stupid. _Why had she expected they would let her handle the capture of such an important asset on her own? Wasn't she just sitting there, waiting for word from them, to tell her what to do?

Varric groaned, turning to her as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "You're hopeless, Red," he sighed, shaking his head as he exited the tower, leaving her to her doubts.


	7. Sincerity

**Wow, seven chapters in already! I'm really enjoying writing this, so I hope you all are enjoying it too! Thank you for all of the favorites and follows :)**

**Sadly, this story will probably not be updated as often after this chapter, as I've been on break and my spring semester starts up Monday. However, barring unforeseen circumstances, I will update every Sunday. Good luck to everyone who's starting back at school as well! **

**WARNING: Minor discussion of sexual assault in this chapter!**

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><p>Chapter 7 – Sincerity<p>

They'd been wildly successful in Empress Du Lion, by Cullen's standards. The siege on the keep went quickly and efficiently, the men got some training fighting giants, and Taranari and her party slayed the demon Imshael before any of their men could get close enough to even be in danger from it, earning her the allegiance of a chavalier as well as the admiration of their soldiers. The Commander considered it a great win for the Inquisition.

Yet he felt more downtrodden than ever.

He'd tried to engage the Inquisitor in conversation several different times on the march back to Skyhold, and every time received responses so wooden, he hardly believed they'd come from her lips. He would almost be concerned that she was ill or possessed, if he didn't see her interacting perfectly normally with everyone _else. _Again, he was the only one being snubbed.

He didn't understand it. Worse, he was beginning to resent her for it.

_With everything that I do for our cause, she could at least attempt to explain her sudden dislike for me_, he thought angrily, brooding at his desk well after all the sane people had turned in.

But was it dislike? A voice gnawing at the back of his mind told him it was more complicated than that. The way she had smiled at him when he came to see her off certainly suggested that, though she'd said nothing to support the theory. And, he thought they had the sort of mutual trust and bond made by the shared burden of leadership that would allow her to tell him if there was something bothering her, something more than that the invasion of her personal space made her uncomfortable.

_What if it's because I'm a Templar? _

The question wasn't an unreasonable one, though he wouldn't think that Taranari would be quick to jump to stereotypes. However, Leliana had said something about her spending time in the Circle as a child, though they hadn't gotten a clear answer as to why. Perhaps she had her reasons to resent Templars, and after the attack on Haven, her prejudices came rushing back. Maybe it was that simple.

He almost wanted that to be the reason, because if it were, he could write their friendship off as a lost cause and stop worrying about every word he said to her. Yet, at the same time, Cullen knew that finding out she was that shallow in her judgment of character would pain him greatly. The respect he would lose for her…

No, it wasn't just prejudice.

"You should ask her," a voice interrupted his thoughts, and he jumped, fumbling for his sword as he looked for the source of the noise. Spotting the quiet young man, Cole, in the shadowed corner beyond his desk's circle of candlelight did little to ease Cullen's nerves. Though, he did take his hand off the hilt of his sword, still in its scabbard.

"Cole. What a pleasure," he said dryly. Cullen had little patience for the tricks of the spirit, especially after the stunt he'd pulled with the disappearing daggers. And he only _remembered_ that incident because Taranari had asked Cole to give him back the awareness, and apologize for taking a memory and equipment that was necessary for Cullen to do his job in training and outfitting their soldiers.

"He helps them protect and help other people, Cole," the spirit recited, his voice imitating the cadence of Taranari's. "You're stopping him from doing that by stealing daggers and making him forget they've been stolen." Cole paused, returning to his own monotonous way of speaking. "You were surprised. Impressed by her."

Cullen had to resist the urge to roll his eyes; it annoyed him when the boy showed he could tell what Cullen was thinking. It seemed like a display of power to him. "She is impressive," he replied simply, pretending to go through papers on his desk, hoping Cole would leave.

"But you're sad because you think she isn't impressed by you because of what you are," Cole prattled, stepping closer to the desk.

Cullen stiffened. "Stop going through my thoughts," he demanded through gritted teeth.

"I'm not. You're sending them to me," the boy said, looking confused. "They're all around you."

The Commander sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. He just wanted to know what was going on with Taranari, not deal with Cole's crazy jabbering. "Please, Cole. Just leave me."

The boy cocked his head. "Ask her. She is sad, too," he said, then vanished.

_What was that all about? _he mused.

Cullen knew that Cole had merely made him forget he was there. He could still be in the room, watching. It made Cullen's skin crawl and hairs stand up, thinking about it.

"Like I'm going to be able to sleep _now_," he muttered. He pushed away from his desk, sparing a glance for the philter case wedged onto his overflowing bookshelf. A little lyrium would stop his skin from crawling…

_No, _Cullen told himself, ripping his gaze from the case and forcing his legs to carry him out into the cold night air. The chill cleared his head somewhat, and he made his way along the ramparts, putting more and more distance between himself and his vice.

At times like this, he inevitably found himself thinking of her. What would Taranari think? What would she say to him if she knew? Would she understand why he had to force himself through this torment, or would she tell him he was overreacting and that he shouldn't be handicapping himself at a time like this?

Cullen ran a hand through his hair, reminded of how she'd once called him "golden boy" because of his blonde curls.

"Maker," he murmured, coming to a stop where the ramparts overlooked the gardens. There was a torch lit down there, casting a circle of light through which a head of unmistakably red hair passed, pacing.

He couldn't help the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. She was impossible.

Cullen didn't stop to think about why that made warmth radiate through him; instead, he made his way to the staircase that led into the gardens.

Taranari turned when she heard him coming.

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><p>She was pacing in the gardens.<p>

It was the middle of the night, she was exhausted from the march back to Skyhold, and she was walking circles in the Maker forsaken gardens.

"Urgggghhhhhh!" Tara pressed her palms to her eyelids in frustration. "Just go to _sleep!"_

She'd been wondering around the castle for hours, unable to hold still, trying to distract herself. It wasn't that she didn't want to rest; she did, but Maker her pride _hurt. _After Cullen had felt the need to sweep into Empress Du Lion and save the day, before she could screw it all up, or sit there forever waiting for a sign telling her what to do… she hadn't felt like herself. The faith had drained out of her, and what little fight she had left came from the bitterness that welled up in its wake. And she'd used most of that taking Suledin Keep.

Now, she just felt like a shell of herself. She wasn't sure what was real anymore. She wasn't sure she had been counted on to lead the Inquisition; maybe she was really just a figurehead, a symbol. Had she actually thought they would give all of that power to an _elf_?

It only made the sting worse to know that Cullen was the one who brought her to her senses.

"Golden boy," she murmured to herself sadly.

Of all of her advisors, she'd respected him the most, and being around him had changed her many times over. At first, watching him had made her a better, more confident leader. Then, after the attack on Haven, when the terror brought back an old fear, his presence had been part of overcoming that as well. And, as she made more visits to his office to assure herself Hollith's memory no longer haunted her mind, she realized that she was _looking _for reasons to visit him.

And that scared her more than anything.

Hollith was a fleeting pain. She'd dealt with that trauma many years ago, and what she'd experienced the first few weeks at Skyhold was like an echo. But it was enough to convince her that she had to confront it, as she had the first time. Then, she'd drug herself to the Chantry, the very Chantry _he _was supposed to be escorting her to when he instead left her lying, bloody and bruised, in the shallow water and silt of the riverbed she rolled into when he was done with her. After finding her in much the same condition on their doorstep, the Chantry sisters had cared for and comforted her, and the constant presence and protection of the Templars there allowed her to separate the man who hurt her from the men who claimed the same faith and vigilance. So, naturally, when she found herself plagued by memories from that night again, she sought out the nearest Templar, the stimulus for their recursion, in an effort to stem them.

That had been completely logical, her best course of action. What was neither logical nor the best result was how much she began to enjoy Cullen's sideways smirk, how she blushed when her companions mentioned him, how she drank in his scent when he was near enough for her to catch it. She couldn't have those feelings, those desires. She absolutely refused them!

Because he was her Commander, and Tara didn't have crushes, she didn't fall. She was fierce and strong and not the type of person who became _enamored_.

So what was once fear of a detested piece of her past, became fear of something _very different, _and she was changed again.

But now…if she had those feelings that she didn't want for a man who didn't respect her back, who handed her false authority, who—

Footsteps interrupted her wallowing, and even if she hadn't heard the metallic _shing _of his armor, she knew it would be him. Somehow, that was the only way this played out, with him revealing to her what a failure or joke she really was.

She turned to face him, head as proud as she could make it, button nose upturned.

* * *

><p>"Commander." Taranari's voice was as apathetic as it had been on the march home, her sneer firmly in place, but in the torchlight her golden eyes glowed, and in them, Cullen saw her doubt.<p>

"Inquisitor?" his voice came out small, unsure, a question. He almost didn't recognize the woman before him.

"I…" There was a tear in her mask for a moment, as if his reaction disarmed her, but she blinked away the emotion before he could name it. "I wanted to apologize for my inaction in Empress Du Lion. It was—"

"Apologize?" he cut her off. What was she talking about? Empress Du Lion had gone perfectly.

"Yes…" Suddenly she looked unsure, her stony resolve faltered. "I should have…"

He wasn't sure what she thought she _should have _done, and as she trailed off, he got the impression that she wasn't so sure either.

"I mean… I thought…" She looked down at the anchor on her hand, then clenched her fist, searching his eyes. There was a desperation in her he'd never seen before, and it unnerved him.

"You thought what?" Cullen said slowly, taking a few cautious steps closer. He felt as if her eyes were drawing him forward, like a moth to a flame, a beacon in the darkness.

He'd never seen her look so vulnerable.

He wanted to be closer, to see it more clearly.

Then, it was gone. Mask back in place, a sheepish smile. "I think I'm overtired, Commander. I'll have to bid you goodnight."

She was across the garden before her words even registered, abandoning her torch in her haste.

Cullen tried to avoid noticing that she'd _fled _when he stepped closer to her or that she'd left a hole in her wake.

Instead, he picked up the torch with a sigh and carried it to the war room.

He had known he wouldn't be sleeping that night.

* * *

><p><em>Damn his sincere eyes, <em>Tara kicked herself, practically sprinting to the kitchens. She dared not go to her chamber in case he tried to follow her; then she'd have nowhere to run but over the balcony.

And she wasn't quite _that _desperate. Not yet.

The minute he looked at her, with that hopeful sort of confusion, she realized that she'd been more of a fool than ever before. Hadn't she told Cole he had sincere eyes? Hadn't that been the _start _of this mess?

And the moment she found a little self-doubt, she tried to pin it on him, make it into a betrayal.

"When there is no betrayal in him_,_" she breathed, sinking to the floor with her back against the kitchen door, kicking herself again for the soft smile that spread her mouth.

Fear. Fear had made her an idiot.

Cullen had come to Suledin Keep for an honest, mundane reason, like she'd tried to tell Varric, and had been pleased with their accomplishments in the siege. He'd even tried to talk to her, cheerily, on the way back, and had been snubbed several times because she thought he was manipulating her. She hadn't know what to believe and didn't think it was him.

She was letting Hollith's memory invade her life once again.

Maker, she thought she'd finished with that.

_But it is a safer problem to have… _Tara couldn't name what other problems wouldn't be as safe; she'd resolved not to think about them.

Anyway, she knew how to handle this. Same old, same old.

_Freaking out around Templars? Pssh. That's an easy one._

Leaving behind the things she half admitted to herself in the garden, she spent the rest of the night trying to convince herself it was really that simple.

The inexplicable smiles that crept up on her if she thought about him for too long were incredibly unhelpful.


	8. Rematch

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**Enjoy, and please review! I always love hearing what you all think :) **

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><p>Chapter 8 – Rematch<p>

After the night in the garden, Tara and Cullen fell into a pattern of mutual awkwardness. Neither had been able to avoid the other, as their roles were both so closely intertwined with the Inquisition's success, so they muddled through the following days with increasing unease. During meetings at the war table, it was particularly noticeable, and Tara saw Leliana and Josephine exchange worried looks several times after one of Cullen and Tara's dysfunctional exchanges.

It got to the point that Tara began to wonder if she should just tell him about her past. It was getting difficult to overlook the hurt in his eyes as she distanced herself from him and only him, and it pained her to see it.

Another voice, a buried voice, whispered about telling him more than the past, but she shoved it down out of sight. The rest was a fantasy, a girlish daydream, and, in the moments when she wasn't flat out denying their existence, she strove to silence those thoughts

No, she couldn't talk to him. Far more might be revealed than she intended, and Tara was not prepared to face any of it yet. She'd sooner face Corypheus' dragon in her undergarments.

But she needed to do something to change the dynamic between them; they couldn't go on like this, with Tara hiding behind a smokescreen of fear, and Cullen frustrated and confused by the unexpected change in their relationship. It wasn't good for the Inquisition. They had almost been friends before Haven was destroyed; she'd been purposefully befriending him then, impressed by his easy leadership and the way he wielded his blade with restraint. Perhaps that was what she needed to return to.

He still owed her a rematch, after all.

She pushed back against the voices clamoring against the idea, claiming she was playing with fire, that she would reveal herself, that it wouldn't change anything. This was something she _knew _had worked for them – sparring had created a comfortable rhythm between them, born of comradery and mutual respect, as well as the teasing banter that inevitably ensued. If she could reclaim that, she had to make an effort. The Inquisition needed both of them, working together, to be successful; she owed it to the people who believed in her to fix what she had broken with her Commander.

Besides, she didn't train nearly as often as she should. Two birds, one stone.

She left the library, where she'd been going over some old Tevinter tomes with Dorian, searching for Corypheus' former name, and made a beeline for Cullen's office, knocking twice before entering.

The surprise on his face when she stepped through the door made guilt squirm through her stomach.

"My lady," he said, standing with urgency. His conduct suggested that he assumed her presence meant an emergency of some sort, which only made her feel worse about the way she'd been treating him lately.

"Relax, Commander," she said, waving him back into his seat with an almost natural smile. "I'm just here to remind you of that rematch you owe me. I thought, since Josephine has me on lockdown until Halamshiral, now might be the perfect time."

Her antivan advisor had requested, rather forcefully, that she not leave on any more missions until Empress Celine's ball, worried that Tara would be detained or injured, and therefore unable to attend; she also had some horrid etiquette lessons planned for her in the meantime. Neither had been appealing to the elven Inquisitor, but she had complied, out of respect for Josephine and everything she did for the Inquisition.

Cullen's expression evolved from utter shock, into a pleased smirk. "I think that might be just the thing to improve morale around here," he replied, pushing to his feet again. Tara didn't think he was actually talking about morale.

Catching onto the alternate meaning, she followed the metaphor. "I wasn't aware that morale was low, Commander," she observed innocently enough.

He met her eyes warmly, smirk widening. "You miss out on much, then."

Tara wasn't completely sure she understood what had just been said, but she knew that they hadn't been talking about the troop's morale, which had been higher than ever since the tavern was completed. She thought they were talking about their strained friendship, and he was telling her he was glad they were returning to normal.

At least, she hoped that was what he meant.

"So, meet me in the sparring circle in, oh, twenty minutes?"

"Are you sure you'll be ready? I mean, if you need a little more time to prepare—" he began teasingly. He used to rail her about the time it took for her to get into her armor back at Haven.

"Oh, I'll be ready," she interrupted, shooting him a cheeky wink before turning and exiting the way she came.

_You just couldn't resist, could you? _she scolded herself inwardly, though on the outside, she couldn't stifle a small smile. It persisted all the way back to her quarters.

* * *

><p>No one else, of the small crowd that had gathered after hearing the Commander and Inquisitor were going to spar, seemed surprised or affected as Cullen was when Taranari slid off the duster she always wore over her leather armor.<p>

They'd been trading blows for a short time then, both of them using two handed greatswords, at her suggestion. He'd balked when she carried out the dulled training weapons, surprised that she could even hold two at once, much less wield one properly, as slight as she was. But she'd insisted that she was more than capable, and she wanted to refresh her skills, in case there was a time she was forced to fight with one in the field.

She'd exceeded his every expectation, of course, meeting him strike for strike, not letting him push her into a corner where her lesser strength would be an issue, and using her size to her advantage. And, while there was much grunting as she hefted the huge steel weapon, she did not appear to be having much trouble. Cullen was incredibly impressed, though, when she backed away from him, waving at him to stay a moment as she stuck her sword in the dirt, he'd expected her to request a change of arms.

And, when she'd instead unlatched the belt cinched at her waist and shrugged off her duster, revealing the leather armor that was practically molded to her body, he stopped breathing for several moments. She turned back to him, wiping the sweat off of her brow with the back of her glove; her hair was in a dark red braid down her back, but a few pieces had struggled free and were sticking to her face and neck. Cullen tried not to stare at them; he swallowed several times, attempting to force his heart out of his throat.

Seeing his expression, she cocked her head to the side. "Tiring out already, Commander?"

A teasing smile danced across her lips. Cullen had to take several deep breaths before he could form coherent words. "Just catching my breath." That seemed an honest enough answer, although he didn't know how he would continue with their match when her body was such a distraction.

He hadn't been affected by the sight of a beautiful woman like that in a _long _time. He thought he must have a lot of, er, pent up energy in that regard, as it had been a long time since he'd done _that _as well.

"Well, I hope you've caught it," she replied, retrieving her weapon, and sinking back into her fighting stance, nodding her head upwards to motion that he should come and get her when he was ready.

He stifled a smile as he raised his own weapon, charging toward her in a manner he knew she would easily dodge. But which way? Left or right?

He watched her eyes, and a half a second before he reached her, she looked in the direction she was going; he'd seen her do it before, but hadn't been prepared for it then. Now, he was waiting for it, and managed to change direction just in time, forcing her to catch his blade on hers and push him back. He saw how her eyes widened then narrowed again, both impressed and determined at the same time. He focused on those eyes, trying to block out how the curves of her body were displayed as she arched back, her sword locked against his.

She didn't really have the mass to resist him in her current position, as he had the advantage of height and was pushing her down and over, throwing off her center of balance. So, she did what he'd expected her to do, and threw herself backwards, pushing away from the ground at an angle with the balls of her feet, trying to get out from under him. This move would've worked if he wasn't ready for it, jumping at almost the same moment she did, and coming down on top of her, sword to her throat.

However, she'd been ready for him as well, the chill of the metal at his own throat to prove it. Their arms and weapons had linked through each other in the air.

A draw.

There was a collective murmur from the crowd, remarking on the outcome.

Taranari smiled, pleased. "Should we continue until I thoroughly trounce you, or call it a day?"

Cullen was watching her lips as she spoke, unusually fascinated by them. He smirked in response to her jab, but didn't move off of her, nor was he encouraged to. She was frozen beneath him, her amber eyes holding his in a mesmerizing way. And though he saw how she sucked greedily at the air, it did not occur to him that it was in fear, but exhilaration. When he caught her gaze wavering down to his mouth in what seemed a trancelike request, he found himself beginning to oblige. His eyes slid closed and lips lowered towards hers, he felt her breath hot on his face, and then...

Someone behind them cleared their throat. Loudly.

Cassandra.

He snapped out of it, blushing like a school girl as he pulled himself off of Taranari, offering a hand to help her up without meeting her eyes. He could only imagine the reproach on her face; he didn't need it confirmed.

Then he heard her laugh bloom over the tittering of the onlookers.

His eyes slid slowly to her face as she took his hand, the good natured smile he'd forgotten he liked so much fixed on her face. Her golden eyes were bright and twinkling. "Falling asleep on me, Commander?" she teased as he pulled her to her feet. "Now that doesn't sound like you."

He wasn't sure how much she realized about where his mind had just been, but he was fairly certain she wasn't convinced by the excuse she was providing him. However, Cullen wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. "I may have dozed off for a moment. Sparring with you is hard work, you know," he chuckled, running a sheepish hand through his hair. He hoped she saw the gratitude in his eyes.

Her smile widened as the crowd laughed, suggesting that she had. "Perhaps a—"

"Inquisitor!" It seemed they were doomed to spend their lives perpetually being interrupted by messengers.

"Yes?" She smiled apologetically at Cullen as she turned to Leliana's agent.

The man spoke in an undertone, only loud enough for the two of them to hear. "The Champion just arrived. She's at the stables n—"

Taranari cut him off with a deprecating smile. "There's no need. Hawke will be at Varric's side by the fire before I even start towards the stables." The woman had only been to Skyhold once before, and she'd been intent on spending her entire visit on the battlements, but Varric had managed to coax her into the main hall with an Orlesian mask and a borrowed dress from Josephine. No one paid any heed to another noble come to gawk at the Inquisition's stronghold, and she'd remained glued to Varric until her departure. Cullen didn't doubt that this would be the case again, either.

"It seems you're getting off easy," the elven rogue said, handing him her training sword. She left him with a parting smirk, folding her duster over her left arm as she followed the messenger up to the throne room.

"I'm not so sure," he muttered to himself, watching her hips swing up the stairs.

_Maker's breath, she's something._

Suddenly, he felt the overwhelming urge to drink his weight in ale.


	9. Midwinter

**Hi lovely readers! Sorry about the delay in the update, but unfortunately the time I had set aside to edit and post this chapter was taken up by the interruption of an extremely drunk friend of my roommate who proceeded to puke all over our couch. Bleh. So, in cleaning that up (thank god for vinyl) my writing time was blown, and the rest of my free time had to be devoted to actual classwork. But I got it up as soon as I could, and I hope you all enjoy it!**

**Thanks for all the reviews, follows, favorites, and general love for this story that went unexpressed virtually but was felt in your hearts ;D**

**Also, hope you guys like the wardrobe changes for the ball. I didn't think it was realistic for them all to be wearing those same red suits when Orlais is all about fashion and opulence that reflects status, so I threw in some masks and gowns.**

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><p>Chapter 9 – Midwinter<p>

The Winter Palace reminded Cullen of the desire demons he'd seen when the Fereldan Tower of Magi fell – beautiful and deadly. The association made him shiver; he did not relish thoughts on that time of his life, but they did evoke the same feelings of dread and disgust he felt in Halamshiral.

The Orlesian palace oozed of power and excess, in equal parts, a roiling mass of superiority wrapped in velvet and satin. But there was control there as well, a simpering restraint that Cullen saw in the feline smiles and calculating glances radiating through whatever group he passed. Having grown accustomed to the familiar weight of his armor, he felt naked and exposed in the red and gold suit Leliana and Josephine had forced upon him, even with the mask. _They _were both in their element, of course, wearing full gowns, coordinated to match the outfit they'd picked for him, and socializing with the self-important nobles like the pros they were.

The Inquisitor was still in the courtyard, according to Blackwall, who looked as uncomfortable as Cullen felt when they passed. The Commander hadn't seen Taranari yet, the work of his fellow advisors he was sure, who'd shot him sly looks when he'd asked about her earlier in the carriage; his indignation when they began questioning his motives only made them break into a chorus of giggling. The memory made him blush; everyone had heard about their sparring match, and rumors were flying as to the brief incident that occurred at its close. Leliana and Josephine had been relentless in their teasing for that as well.

"Commander," Cassandra interrupted his musings.

He looked up, giving her his attention. The Seeker had adamantly refused to wear a dress simply to conform to Orlesian fashion, so she was dressed similarly to himself, though her pants were tighter and tucked into boots.

"There is a… situation with Sera," she said, sounding pained. After much debate, it had been decided that _all _of Taranari's team would accompany them to Halamshiral. The bickering that had ensued when she had tried to only take Cole, Vivienne, and Blackwall was such that Josephine, eager to depart, had stepped in and resolved the situation in that way, claiming the invitation from Duke Gaspard had been open ended. Cullen grit his teeth at the memory, certain he wouldn't be dealing with this if she'd had a little _patience._

"What did she do?" he groaned, allowing himself to be pulled away from a group of heavily adorned men and women who'd been edging uncomfortably close to his square of wall.

Cassandra grimaced, obviously searching for the words as she led him toward the ballroom. "I… she's been arguing with…"

Stepping through the entrance to the central room, waving away the elven servant who'd come forward to take his name (he'd been announced earlier with Josephine and Leliana), he spotted the reason for his summons. Sera was causing a scene, stabbing a finger into the chest of the man who was supposed to be heralding her entrance, a snarl forming on her face.

The Commander was quick to step in, grabbing Sera's elbow as she tensed for a punch. "Sodding cockdudder shite face!" the elf exclaimed in frustration, pulling against him, causing something in the satin tunic she was wearing to snap. She shot him a look that was half abashed, half furious. "This twitmongerharpytrough won't frigging announce me!"

Cullen struggled to find the patience to keep the sneer off of his face, turning to the wide-eyed Orlesian. "Is this true?"

"Commander," the man began in his droll accent, straightening his mask as he spoke. "Please. I am not so foolish as to insult a guest, but she will not give me her name, and she's torn up the announcement Lady Montilyet gave me."

At this revelation, Cullen turned his piercing glare back to the elf he was holding. "I told you," she tried to sound indignant, but started snickering as she spoke, "I am Mai Bhalsych of Korse!"

"Andraste's flaming knickers," Cullen groaned, dragging the hand that wasn't restraining Sera down his face in exasperation. Turning to the Orlesian, he spat, "She is Lady Sera, archer of the Inquisition." Then, spinning the elf and leaning in close to her scowling face, he growled in an undertone, "and she better _behave _before I have her taken back to the camp!"

Sera's eyes narrowed at his threat, but she merely shrugged him off, taking to the stairs as the man hesitantly heralded her in.

Cullen shook his head, already tired, making for an empty table by the wall, intent on keeping an eye on Sera until Taranari could take over.

By the time the Inquisitor was announced, he had been surrounded by the same preening group of Orlesians that had been watching him in the foyer, so he didn't see her until she elbowed her way to his side.

And _Maker have mercy, _did she look stunning.

Her deep red hair had been curled, and cascaded down her right shoulder in shining ringlets, better displaying her left ear which had been cuffed with an elaborate piece of jewelry. The golden gown Leliana and Josephine had chosen for her made her look taller, like an elven queen, with the face paint he knew was underneath the matching mask (there had been an argument) causing her eyes to glow even more than usual. And, while he knew that the dress she wearing was probably quite heavy, and to top that off she likely had her leather armor and some of her weapons hidden in her skirts, Cullen thought she looked unusually light, as if she might just float away if he didn't anchor her.

"Inquisitor," was all he managed to choke out.

Her lips, darker than normal, curled as she gave him an appraising look.

The cold sweat that broke out on the back of his neck at the sight only confirmed that his acknowledged attraction to her (no one could deny that she was beautiful, and he hadn't tried) and regard had grown into something more concerning. But he swallowed those feelings down, reminding himself of his duty.

"You look lovely, my lady," he added softly, hoping to avoid the notice of the surrounding tittering men and women.

Taranari's smile widened and a faint blush appeared on the skin below her mask, though she quickly waved him off. "Everyone looks fantastic in these clothes we can't afford." She'd been attempting to convince Josephine that custom coordinated suits and gowns were a waste of their coin; she'd failed.

Cullen chuckled at the memory. "And Lady Montilyet is positively glowing about it," he pointed out, nodding his head in Josephine's direction, where she was laughing merrily with her sister at something a young Comte had said. It had been a long time since he saw her enjoy herself so much.

But Taranari's expression darkened a fraction at his comment, and he saw a glint that he didn't recognize in her bright eyes. "Yes, I suppose she is." She tilted her head, looking at him like she was weighing her next words. "You should ask her to dance, Commander. You'd make such a striking pair, and the Orlesians would eat it up." Her smile was bright and teasing as ever, but he didn't think it was reaching her eyes behind the concealing mask.

He faltered a little at her words, unable to comprehend their significance, but quickly shook it off. "I don't dance," he said firmly.

There was a glimmer of relief behind her mask, but he also sensed a certain disappointment. He didn't understand it, though he couldn't deny that it filled him with a disturbing sense of hope.

"That is a shame then." She was looking at him again with undisguised fascination.

His smile was small and a little embarrassed. He found that she was becoming increasingly disarming to him; the Commander quickly turned into a bumbling schoolboy in her presence. He cleared his throat. "I wouldn't—"

"Oh but, _Commander_," a heavily accented Orlesian woman draped herself over him, or at least as much of him as she could reach, as even in her high shoes she was quite short. "You would really deprive us of your presence on the dance floor?"

Taranari looked down at her like she was an insect. Even the slightness of _her _frame and height rivaled that of this woman's, who pressed her exposed cleavage to Cullen's arm like that should have some effect on him. It only served to make him _more _uncomfortable than he already was.

The elf's eyes narrowed, taking in the woman's clothes, posture, and entourage, likely trying to gauge her status and the importance of remaining in her favor. Apparently deciding enemies were better avoided, she leaned in almost conspiratorially, saying, "Ah, but a woman of your many favors must have partners clamoring for your attention! Don't let my Commander's insistence on stoicism dampen your evening!"

Cullen couldn't help but notice the barely disguised emphasis she'd put on _my Commander, _or the hidden threat in her tone.

The small woman released his arm, looking both surprised and impressed by Taranari. The knowledge of restraint and cunning the elf had demonstrated couldn't help but garner the respect of the aristocrats.

"Why Inquisitor," she had a sharp smile fixed beneath her garish mask. "I don't believe we have been introduced." The woman held out her hand as if she expected the elven woman to kiss it, saying, "Lady Rameda Cerise of Val Foret."

Taranari took the offered hand, curtsying slightly over it as Josephine had taught her. "A pleasure, my lady. I recognized the Val Foret crest," she motioned to her mask, "and your reputation precedes you. Inquisitor Taranari Lavellan," she replied, the interest evident in her tone. "Have you been properly introduced to my Commander, Cullen Rutherford?" There was that slightly emphasized _my _again.

The elf turned in his direction, taking back control from Lady Cerise. He felt the blush creeping to his face as the women's attention returned to him.

"I have not, but I am charmed, of course," the Orlesian shot him a sultry smile that made him gulp uncomfortably. The ogling he'd been receiving since coming to this palace was acutely unnerving.

"It is an honor Madame," he choked out, stooping in a bow that drew his head far too close to the predatory woman. He thought he could hear a slight exhale of breath from Taranari, like she was silently laughing at him.

She did have some pity on him, however, taking the arm of Lady Cerise, saying, "Would you take a turn around the garden with me, Madame? I feel it is my duty to find you a more willing dancer among my people…"

Taranari's voice trailed off as she lead the leering lady away, but she shot a teasing smile over her shoulder at him before she sauntered out of sight.

* * *

><p>"Andraste's sodding betrayal!" Tara cursed breathlessly, holding her knees as she recovered from the ambush.<p>

The combination of the demon spewing rift the Grand Duchess Florianne (Duke Gaspard's sister who, as it turns out, was behind Corypheus' presence in the palace) had left with the contingent of Venatori that swarmed had almost been enough to overwhelm Tara and her small party.

Cole, Iron Bull, and Solas had accompanied her into the Royal Wing, the latter wearing the linen shirts and pants they'd worn beneath their gaudy finery, the former wearing what he always wore, wide brimmed hat and all. She'd reasoned, knowing they'd face opposition, that Iron Bull and Solas wore little to no armor on a regular basis and would be least hindered by its lack, and Cole was the only one already armored, as no one could remember seeing him anyway.

Leliana's people had ensured that their weapons were smuggled in, but that was difficult enough without trying to hide things like Blackwall's hulking breastplate, so Tara had to let the armor go for the most part and make due.

Because of this, for the first and last (she hoped) time, she thanked the maker for full skirts.

She'd worn her own leather greaves beneath her dress, and the chemise and vest had been wrapped around her swords and tied onto her thighs beneath her skirts. It had made it exceedingly hard to walk, but she felt more secure with them on her person. Though it did make things difficult when she entered a hostile area, to strip out of the gown and dawn her armor, only to have Solas' nimble fingers lacing the cursed thing back up again before she returned to the party.

As pretty as the gown made her feel, it was a headache she hardly needed. Josephine had insisted, however, that Tara could not wear the same outfit she'd allowed for Cassandra. The Orlesians would be appalled to see her appear so commonly, the leader of the Inquisition.

So she'd been dealing with it.

But upon defeating the last of the Grand Duchess' ambush, knowing that the Empress' life was about to be forfeit, she almost smiled at the realization that she didn't have time to put the damn thing back on again and would have to rush back into the party in her gore and blood spattered leather.

The faces of the court would be priceless…

"Come on, we have to _move,_" she urged her party on, leading them hurriedly back to the main ballroom, ordering Solas and Bull to follow once they'd donned their finery again. She did not want to alarm the nobles more than necessary with a half dressed, blood covered Qunari, putting the same logic to her elven apostate companion.

Cole remained at her elbow as she shoved her way through the party, shocking everyone who saw her.

Her carefully curled hair was actually somewhat _matted _with dried blood and demonic goop, and she knew she smelled of battle. Not to mention that she was wearing armor quite unsuitable for such a formal gathering, and her face paints were running with sweat.

Cullen's jaw practically dropped when he saw her, and she suppressed a grimace.

He'd been so impressed earlier by her girlish appearance; she lost a little respect for him when he balked at her then, thinking he was disappointed in the change.

"Maker, what happened?" he said, rushing to her side, and practically pressing her into an empty span of wall. She didn't think he noticed that the eyes of almost the entire court were surreptitiously fixed on them; he was caught up in concern.

She explained the situation with the Duchess in a hushed voice, trying not become distracted by the way his eyes roamed over her, checking to make sure she wasn't injured. "So what now?" he asked finally.

Tara's eyes darted over his shoulder, searching for an answer. She spotted Duke Gaspard with his sister across the dance floor, and was struck with an unexpected hatred for them both. She found that, in that moment, she completely understood Sera's never ending diatribe about little people, because the Duke and Duchess both had hurt so many, without an ounce of remorse. It kindled a rage inside her she had known few times before.

She hadn't known what to do about Orlais' leadership up until that point. Originally, they'd been intent upon saving Celine, but Leliana had pointed out that stability could be achieved with Gaspard or Briala as well. At first, Tara had been too shocked by the realization that the Empress' life was in her hands, that she had the power to pick the ruler of a country, to make a decision. But looking at the two scheming nobles now, she knew what damning evidence she would reveal, and knew it was time to stop being subtle.

"I'm going to talk to the Duchess."

Her voice left no room for discussion, and the fury in her eyes made Cullen trail off with his protest that Celine had already begun her speech.

He watched helplessly as she marched across the ballroom to confront the woman who'd just tried to kill her.


	10. Blackout

**Really off-canon chapter, but the game events didn't speak to me when I tried to write them. I like this better.**

**Looking forward to hearing what you all think! Thanks for the support so far! :)**

* * *

><p>Chapter 10 – Blackout<p>

Cullen had always thought of the Game as a perverse, underground network; it intimidated him, and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to understand it, knowing he would never uncover all the secrets. For that reason, he'd initially been quite put off by Josephine and Leliana, when Cassandra recruited him to the cause; the women seemed so false, delighting in trickery. As he came to know them, he realized that, while that was partially true, their stories were far more complicated and their tendencies toward compassion just as labyrinthine.

Leliana, for instance, doted on the birds in her rookery, but also could order a throat slit without so much as flinching; the calculation in her face in those moments wounded Cullen, but he told himself it was necessary. It was her job.

But watching the way Taranari decimated the Grand Duchess, publicly humiliating her into limp desperation, unable to call on her supports, unwilling to _fight… _He found a new respect for the Game, at least, the way his elven Inquisitor harnessed it to her will.

He was standing back, admiring her, as Celine's guards dragged Florianne across the ballroom, when the room shattered in a flash of heat and power.

Cullen was thrown like a sack against the wall, at least five feet behind him, pieces of the marble railing he'd been resting against coming with him. A few shards of white rock embedded themselves under his arm, the larger chunks bludgeoning his sides and arms, which had thankfully come up to protect his face.

He silently cursed the absence of his armor.

_You should've been paying attention! _He berated himself, pushing painfully to his feet, loping in the direction he thought the attack had occurred. The room was a blackish haze, darkened by the absence of the multitude of lighted braziers, most of which were put out by the surge of air and debris, and he found himself walking mostly blind.

It had to have been magic, but he hadn't even noticed the mage. There were so many magic users in the room, and his focus had been on Taranari and Florianne, the first because she was magnificent, the second because she was still a potential threat. He had smuggled men into the chamber for the purpose of monitoring the others, possible agents in Celine's assassination, but there were few Templars among them, and none as well trained as himself. _He _was to blame for the magic attack that was loosed on the chamber, ripping through the area like a bomb.

But he hadn't _felt _anything; even in a crowd this size, there should have been ripples in his consciousness if a mage were pulling on enough mana to blow up half the room. Had he truly been _that _distracted that he hadn't noticed?

Groping his way through the smoke and plaster dust, registering that his hearing wasn't quite right, he began to form an idea of what had occurred.

He headed for the center of the chamber, drawing his sword as he realized one of the noises filtering through the fading buzzing in his ears were daggers digging into flesh. Another sense, sight, had also begun to recover, adapting to the gloom, using the thin moonlight creeping through the windows and the few, scattered torches still burning to distinguish shapes and color through the smoke.

When he came to the place he thought Florianne had been, he was greeted with a small crater in the, until moments ago, pristine floor, but the darker shape of a twisted corpse he'd expected was absent.

He had theorized that the Duchess had somehow set off some sort of super grenade he'd never seen before, perhaps with red lyrium, effectively committing suicide before they could hang her, and perhaps taking the Empress' life as well. But her body was gone.

Could it have been burned to dust?

Cullen staved off the thought that Taranari had been the closest person to her.

He needed to get a handle on the situation before he could let worry cloud his mind. The Orlesians were already muddling him enough; having regained their senses much more slowly than Cullen, they'd broken into a chorus of hysterical screaming, intermittently punctuated by the sound of bodies colliding in the haze.

He could no longer make out the wet plunge of the dagger in the din, though he flinched toward where he had last heard it, sweeping a hand in front of him to clear some of the debris out of his line of sight.

A mist of red through the dust cloud filled him with anxiety. Was it Taranari's brilliant hair, or blood, or both? Did he want to know?

He forced his feet ahead, hands tightening around his sword.

Finally, a dim picture fizzled through the smoke, and relief clutched at him like a beggar when he saw Taranari's back, curtained by matted red curls, upright and moving.

For an instant, the most important thing was that she was alive, unbroken, and he wondered that he could possibly feel so whole. But it was a fleeting completeness, and he soon regained control of his emotions, the practicality of a soldier taking over as he saw what she was _doing._

Her daggers, the shorter, nimbler set, were clutched in blood drenched hands, her hunched shoulders flexing as she stabbed and raked through a lump of charred flesh at her knees.

The Duchess.

Cullen couldn't see the elf's face from the angle he was approaching, but as he drew closer, he was able to make out a grinding, choking sound coming from her throat beneath the other chaotic noises. It rang with fury and heartache.

The dust was finally beginning to settle as he closed the distance between them, kneeling beside her. She made no acknowledgment of his presence, though he noticed the cuff she'd been wearing on her ear had ripped through the soft skin, hanging askew from both the cartilage it pierced and the skin of her scalp behind that which the other half of the jewelry had impaled. He realized she must have more injuries, but she didn't seem to care about them.

She was intent on grinding Florianne's corpse into a perverse meat loaf.

"Inquisitor," he called gently, though loudly to be heard over the cacophony around them, placing a hesitant hand on her arm.

She recoiled from his touch, a desperate anger in her features as she turned her gaze on him, daggers still embedded in the mangled body. The powders and creams Leliana and Josephine had adorned her face with were smeared with sweat, tears, blood, and plaster from the columns that had been damaged in the explosion, and out of her coated smudge of a face shone her piercing eyes, flinty with hurt and determination.

Cullen steadied himself with a breath at the sight of those eyes, which had awoken something within him he couldn't explain or address at that moment.

"Taranari." He used her name without thinking about it, without giving himself time to doubt. He needed to move through the cloud of emotions swirling across her face, and bring her back to him, where he could help her. He needed to call her by something that had _meaning _for her, beyond some petty title she refused to simply live by, however much she deserved it.

The twinge of shame at addressing her so informally came later, when her eyes weren't his light source, shining on him even in anger.

But they softened at his call, liquefying into the more familiar amber warmth he was accustomed to, and spilling over with tears he was definitely _not _familiar with. Yet how could he protest when she shakily relinquished her daggers to him, and melted into his arms?

Though the haze around them was thinning, no one was near enough to see them crouching in the darkness, and even if they had been, he couldn't have pushed her away. Instead, he dropped her daggers on the charred stone and clutched her to his chest, not giving a damn that the shards of marble embedded in his torso were screeching with protest or that the blood coating her leather armor was soaking through his shirt. The rightness of her being so close was almost overwhelming then, but there was a nagging thought that kept him grounded enough to pay attention to the word in her quite sobs.

"Varric," she spit the name out with an anguish that confirmed a deep fear he'd been holding since he regained his feet after the explosion. One of their own had been mortally wounded (or worse) in the blast.

Trying to be gentle, but acting on an urgency that trumped her current comfort, he grabbed her face and forced her to meet his intense gaze. "Where?"

Tears flowed silently down her face. "Solas is trying to heal him, but he won't—" she choked on the words, "I know he's d—"

Cullen pressed a more sympathetic hand to her mouth, stopping her from speaking the cruel word. "Where?" he demanded again, this time more calmly.

There was an old, worn tragedy in her expression as she pointed behind and to the left of her.

* * *

><p>Tara watched Cullen's back as he trotted towards her friend's body.<p>

_Corpse, _she thought, pulling her knees to her chest in the emptiness Cullen had left behind. She felt hollow, numb, as the tears ran silently off her chin, more a reflex now then a product of emotion.

Varric had been on his way to the landing where she'd stood while confronting Florianne to collect Cole, at her signal, who'd shadowed her through the ballroom as backup. She did not want him accompanying her when she spoke to the Empress, however, lest he choose that moment to reveal himself, and Varric was her go-to to keep an eye on the boy, as he'd become a sort of role model to him.

But then her communicative looks shared with Varric turned into a light show that cracked her head against the stone railing separating her body from the upper level of the ballroom, and Cole was dragging her across the floor, down the steps, trying to revive her, taking her to the spot by the stairs where a huge piece of marble railing had fallen on… And the boy was crying helplessly, humanly. Solas said he'd _felt _his anguish and come.

The elven mage removed the railing with magic, but the wounds… What could he do to uncrush a body? To bring back breath that left it?

Solas did not seem as distressed as she was, however, which made her furious. He kept calmly telling her that the dwarf would recover. He told her to quiet herself, and ordered Cole to aid him. He told her Varric was still alive, still breathing.

And what did she know about healing medicine?

_Maybe he will be okay, _she thought longingly.

But the sickly pallor and the way the left side of his chest was just… caved, extinguished that hope. She had seen it even through the darkness – his white, slack face, peppered with stubble was burned into the back of her eyelids

She kept flashing back to the dream of her mother's death, the dream she _thought _was memory, and had a horrid certainty that she was about to lose someone else. It felt similar: the same desperation, the same haunting ache sneaking into her bones.

But she had to know for sure_, _she decided, dragging herself upright and stumbling forward. She still felt woozy and not fully aware from the explosion, but she followed the path Cullen took with steady enough steps.

_Well_, they kept her vertical for the most part.

Tara quickly forgot what she'd left behind on the ballroom floor with her daggers, as well as the blood that stained her up to the elbows and permeated her leather's warm, tannery scent with a sharp, sickening tang. The blood and the image would haunt her later, as she attempted to scrub it from her nailbeds and conscience.

For the moment, she had to focus all of her energy on walking, as each step was becoming more difficult. She'd only made about a dozen before Cullen doubled back, a hopeful gleam to his face that made her instantly stiffen in distrust.

"He really is going to be alright." He offered her a small but sincere smile that made her want to flinch away from him; everything was too raw and as the dust filtered from the air, even the pale, hazy darkness felt bright and harsh. Cullen's golden hair, caked with ash and dried blood, seemed blinding; she couldn't look at him for too long.

When he'd found her… She had intended to find Florianne dead, but the woman had only been brutally mutilated, half her body shredded and viscous around her surviving parts. Pained breaths still fluttered through her, her pale eyes wide and blood shot fixed on Tara's face, and the gaping mouth formed pleas of mercy, death.

Tara had given her what she asked for.

The problem had been, she couldn't stop giving. The fury that swelled within her at the woman's audacity to ask for kindness in death was what spurred her hand, not empathy, and the desperate loss she felt in having seen Varric's body, broken, smaller than she'd ever seen it look before, drove her to keep cutting.

Cut away the evil. Cut away the darkness. Cut away the anchor on her hand that made everything so much _harder. _Cut away Corypheus, who had turned the world into a place she couldn't trust. Give the world a clean break, the red lyrium that swallowed the future she'd seen in Redcliffe a sad memory, obliterated.

Cullen had seen her like that, half out of her mind, and had summoned her back. She was ashamed of her behavior, and that she'd so simply thrown her grief into his chest. She cringed from the blood on his clothes that she'd left, stains from her weakness.

"Is he awake?" the cautious question was directed to the floor, quieter than they'd spoken before, as the nobles seemed to have regained some sense, no longer forcing them to yell.

Cullen drew closer, encouraged by her speech. "Barely."

She noticed that he was limping slightly and favoring his left side – he'd been injured too.

He had apparently noticed how she was shaking, because he offered his right arm in support, wrapping it around her waist at her consent. They hobbled like that for a few steps, but her injuries were making even that difficult, as determination and adrenaline waned. Finally, Cullen scooped her off her feet, wincing at the pain in his abdomen, and quickly ferried her to where Varric lay, surrounded by several figures, one of which was a raven haired woman Tara had met earlier in the evening.

Celine's arcane advisor. Morrigan.

"Well, I am happy to see you alive," the sharp featured mage said by way of greeting. "I am hopeful we will find Celine in as favorable a state."

Tara had to resist the urge to snort. She wouldn't exactly call her current state _favorable_, despite the muted pleasure she felt at being in Cullen's arms.

A shaky breath drew her attention, and she struggled to her feet, letting Cullen leave his hand at her waist to steady her. She couldn't deny that his presence was unthinkably comforting, and she wanted to keep him near more than she actually needed his support.

She returned for a moment to her trek through the snow the night Haven was attacked.

Tara had drug herself up and down the mountainside through the blizzard, soaked and shivering, unable to feel her hands, clutching them under her arms hoping she wouldn't lose her fingers. Or more.

She'd collapsed with relief and exhaustion when she heard the voices of her companions, having done all she could, expecting the embrace of the icy blanket she'd fallen into many times already. Cullen had caught her before her head hit the ground; he'd wrapped his ever present fur cloak around her, and the warmth of his wide chest and his scent, surrounding her almost instantly, had soothed her into unconsciousness before they even reached the camp. They all thought she'd fainted; she knew the truth.

It was shortly after that, that she'd developed the complex fear of him, cringing from the memories he brought back, but in that moment, he'd been the strength and comfort she needed.

And as she approached Varric's prone form, figures parting to let her pass, Cullen was her strength and comfort again.

It scared her how much she wanted, and sometimes even _needed, _to rely on him. She couldn't afford to think that way, not when she could so easily lose him. If anything, this experience with Varric had taught her how dangerous her connections to others could be to herself and their cause.

Though the dwarf was, in fact, going to recover ("Took you long enough, Red.") she couldn't shake that feeling of imminent loss.

"I told you it was not as dire as you assumed," Solas said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder as she kneeled down beside them and gripping Varric's hand gratefully. The elf's knowing eyes were studying her again, trying to decipher her grief, her loss of control. She knew he'd never seen her lose control before; she'd been very careful of it.

Cole was unusually silent stting opposite her, his pale, nimble hand wrapped around Varric's rough, hairy one, staring down at the fading bruises and lacerations that had a few minutes ago, threatened his friend's life. She'd seen the fear in him earlier and sympathized. The boy, or whatever he _really_ was, had lost so many he cared for already; she was glad he didn't have to lose Varric too.

"Thank you, Solas," she said quietly, her fingertips ghosting over his hand on her shoulder.

The elf dipped his head, removing his hand. "It was not entirely my doing, Lethallan. The—"

"_I," _Morrigan interrupted, leaning into the cluster of conversation, "helped him to save your friend."

Tara nodded thoughtfully. "Then my thanks to you as well."

"And mine," Varric groaned, trying to sit up, eyes rolling. "Where's Bianca?" Solas' firm hand on his chest held him back. Of course he would worry about his beloved crossbow at a time like this.

"Do not ruin my work, dwarf," the mage said coldly, glaring at him. Tara noticed that he, too, looked exhausted.

The sound of steel meeting steel and a ripple of Orlesian shouts from the foyer silenced any further conversation, and her currently gathered people were quickly split up, one group heading toward the sound of fighting, the other to where Celine had been at the time of the attack.

She sent Cullen with the first party (though it pained her to order him away, and he looked almost like he wanted to protest), made of a few Inquisition soldiers that had been smuggled into the palace, leading the second herself, consisting of Cole, and the strange raven haired woman, Morrigan. She left Solas behind to defend Varric, if need be.

Cole offered her his shoulder as support as they made their way back across the dark ballroom, which had grown eerily silent, and up the stairs to the dais Celine had been speaking from.

Thankfully, her body was not there, and neither was anyone else's. Actually, the entire area they searched was devoid of people.

"Curious," Morrigan observed, to a silent nod from the elven Inquisitor.

"I propose we join the others. I have a feeling we'll find Celine with her people," Tara observed.

And as they exited the dark haze of the ballroom, that was exactly what they saw: Duke Gaspard, armed with his sword, and the Empress and Briala armed with bows, fighting the Venatori Florianne had left behind alongside Cullen and his men. The unarmed, cowering Orlesians and elven servants were huddled together behind their protectors, oddly quiet as they watched their leaders defend them. It was something strange and magnificent to behold, in a palace which had been consistently demolishing Tara's faith in the empire throughout the evening.

Reaching for her daggers, she realized she'd left them behind in the ballroom. All she had was a small hunting knife. She shrugged off Cole's support, steeling herself to join the battle nevertheless, and take a weapon off the first Venatori she killed, but Morrigan's hand on her forearm stopped her.

"No," the mage hissed. "Your Commander is enough and the battle is almost won. Let them save their country."

Seeing what the shrewd woman was _really_ saying, that a moment like this had the potential to unite a warring empire without further bloodshed made her retreat back into the shadows as asked.

Perhaps the chevalier and elven usurpers need not be silenced after all.


	11. Sleepless

**I am so sorry about the two week intermission! I've been so swamped with papers and things that I haven't had time for fun writing :( **

**BUT to make it up to you all, this chapter's nice and long, and I will have another chapter posted in a few days (as I've had that mostly written for a while).**

**And again, THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the favorites and follows! Enjoy the chapter and please review! :)**

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><p>Chapter 11 – Sleepless<p>

Cullen woke slowly, his head aching, though his side where he'd been peppered with marble during the explosion was oddly painless. He blinked blearily, trying to take stock of his surroundings.

The sheets and blankets that were pulled up to his uncovered waist were oddly silken (nothing like the coarse, hardy fabrics that adorned his mattress back at Skyhold), and overhead there was a canopy of velvet drapery, adorned with little, wire suns. On one side and wrapping around the foot of the bed, a curtain matching the above fabric had been drawn; the only opening revealed little more than a heavily carved oaken door, and the trunk he'd packed for the journey.

Cullen supposed this must be some sort of guest room in the Winter Palace, though he couldn't remember falling asleep there the previous night… The last thing he recalled was the haphazard dinner they'd eaten after a day of performing burial rights for the few dead and arguing about who among them should be healed first. Then, smiling at Taranari as she came towards him with two glasses of wine, placing one in his hands as she took his empty plate…

He growled when he realized what had happened – she'd given him a sleeping draught so she could have him healed, though he'd insisted he was _fine._

Rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, he pushed off the frilly bedcovers and sat up, looking around for his clothes and armor. The chest sitting by the bed contained everything he wasn't wearing at the time of the ball, but what happened to his boots? And his sword? After a thorough search of the room, he was certain they were missing.

With a sigh, he began to dress, strapping on his armor in such irritation that he kept messing up and pinching himself at the junctions of the plates. Cursing, he donned his customary fur duster and headed for the side door by the bed, knocking once before barging into the adjoining room. It was a small wash room, marble basins sparklingly clean in the morning sunlight streaming in from the high window, and a wide bathtub filled with cloudy water. His missing things were not present, though he spotted a door opposite the one he was standing in, suggesting an adjoining bedroom.

Just as he was making to close his own door and search for a hallway, its counterpart flew open, revealing Taranari. Her deep red hair was a frenzy around her face and shoulders, her arms (one of which was in a sling) wrapped over her chest holding up the towel that was her only garment.

He felt his whole face flush, though his body made no move to turn away. She looked beautiful.

Her amber eyes registered her surprise for only a split second, before her face burst into a sunny smile. "Leave it to me to underestimate you! I was sure you'd be out all day!"

She turned from his still stunned expression to call over her shoulder. "Nurina, would you please go find someone to fetch Commander Cullen's boots and sword? He looks quite naked without them," here she winked at him, causing him to fidget uncomfortably, and he heard the incomprehensible murmurs of another woman's voice from the room behind her. "No, no, don't worry about the bath. I'll be fine." Apparently the other woman disagreed, judging by the way Taranari rolled her eyes, puffing a strand of hair out of her face. "_Fine, _I will patiently await your return then."

Cullen was gripping the doorway with unprecedented force, trying to distract himself from the shapely curve of the elven Inquisitor's collarbone, as well as how easy it would be to rip that towel away from her, revealing other shapely curves. His inappropriate desires shamed him, especially since she was clearly injured, and he drug his eyes away from her body to the glittering floor tiles. He knew how little he deserved to look at her like this.

"Cullen," she said his name softly, beckoning his gaze back to her own. She rarely used his first name (though she _did _use it, unlike himself, the incident in the ballroom notwithstanding), and when she did, he learned to pay attention.

"Yes?"

Her eyes grew both mischievous and contrite at the same time. "I'm sorry I drugged you."

His trademark smirk snaked its way through his embarrassment, and he chuckled. "It's quite alright, Inquisitor."

"And," she faltered, working her fingers over a length of her towel in unease. "And for the ballroom. I promise that won't—"

"Taranari," he interrupted, using her name again to silence her. He hated the self-abusing shame in her voice; it didn't belong there. Her warm eyes flitted up to his, looking through the thick lashes. "The only thing you have to apologize for is for making me have this conversation with you while you're half naked," he blurted, not realizing what he was saying until it was too late. He'd been trying to lighten the mood, but now, he just put a hand over his face to stop the embarrassment from continuing.

She laughed. "What?"

"Seriously, it's distracting," he mumbled into his palm, knowing that she could see the blush even in his ears.

Her laughter brushed against him like the wind, light and calming. "Well sorry to disappoint, but I can't exactly get my clothes back on by myself…" It sounded almost like a request.

He peeked through his fingers at her, confused. "W-what?" A bit of the stutter he'd had back before Templar training slipped into his voice.

Her teasing smile widened into a grin, and she motioned with her good arm to the sling and then down to the wrapped knee he hadn't noticed before. "Apparently, I ripped several important somethings in my shoulder in the blast," she said a bit ruefully.

"And the knee?" He dropped his hand, spreading his arms to hold the door frame again.

"Er… I think I sprained that trying to walk with the concussion." Her face turned a bit sheepish and she clutched the towel up closer to her chin, unfortunately for Cullen revealing more of her toned thighs.

He bit back a pained breath, trying to focus on the subject at hand. "Concussion?" His voice was strained, a little higher than it had been.

"They healed that," she said quickly.

"Why didn't they heal the rest?"

She smiled – wide, fake, and placating. "I told the healers one lyrium potion and they had to quit on me?"

He pushed out of the door way, his socked feet thudding angrily against the tile until his chest was a few inches from hers. A small shiver went through her; he imagined she must be cold standing there without any clothes… He cleared his throat, trying to do the same for his mind.

"Didn't we agree on _three _lyrium potions for serious injuries?" It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to stay on subject and hold onto the anger he should be feeling. Her eyes were braising him with their warmth and he found himself yearning to be burnt.

"I didn't think it was that se—"

"Inquisitor," he growled.

Suddenly her playful expression went slack, and she pulled back into her bedroom. Over her shoulder, he caught sight of her bloodstained leathers laid out in the corner by her trunk upon which her dress from the other night was piled.

"What? What's wrong?" He could tell he'd offended her.

"Nothing, nothing."

"I—" He wanted to press the issue but he saw how she was retreating, and he didn't want her to leave. "So what did you do with my boots and sword?" he asked, grasping for something that would get her talking again.

Pride flickered in her eyes. "I knew I'd never get another opportunity like this to check your equipment…"

"And?" His mouth quirked up at the corner. He had her.

"I had your boot soles replaced and your sword polished and sharpened, and when we get back I'm getting you a new shield and having Harritt fix those plate bindings," she said quickly, a hint of a smile in her voice.

His smirk widened. "Oh, are you?"

"Yep."

"And what if I like the shield I have?" he asked, taking a step towards her.

She backed up in sync with him, though her step was half the size of his. "Then I guess I'll have to take it by force," she teased, leaning closer with her words.

Footsteps stopped him from replying, though his eyes were smoldering into hers. He felt inappropriately close to her for company, so he stepped back again as a middle aged elven woman, Nurina he assumed, wearing the white day mask of an Orlesian servant and a long, blue house dress entered the room. One of her slender hands clutched his familiar black boots, freshly polished, and over her bent shoulder was the belt and scabbard of his longsword.

He rushed forward in relief, receiving the items with sincere thanks to the harried looking woman.

Taranari watched him with a warm sort of distance, evaluating the interaction, then she turned to Nurina and said, "Please, take some rest. I will manage."

The woman's pale mouth pursed with stubbornness, and Cullen wondered if Taranari knew how similar the expression was to those he'd seen on her own lips. "With all due respect my lady, no, you won't."

Cullen had a small coughing fit to cover his laughter at that comment. Taranari was tangling with the wrong servant; Celine's head of house had chosen well when she gave the Inquisitor Nurina.

"Well, that's my cue to leave," he sighed, meeting Taranari's eyes with undisguised mirth. "Please excuse me ladies." He dipped his head and turned to go.

"What, you're not going to help me bathe?" she called after him, clear sarcasm in her voice.

Even knowing that she was messing with him, Cullen froze, blush creeping from his chest to the crown of his head. "I-I d-don't think," he stammered, unsure why he was replying and unable to get the image of her naked body out of his mind.

"Relax, Commander. I know all about your vows of _chastity._" She said it like a joke, but there was a note of bitterness underneath her tone.

_Is that what she really thinks about me? _He wondered.

Nurina clucked her tongue, shaking her head. "I can draw you a bath after my lady, Commander," she said, as if to distract him from Taranari's comment.

"Thank you, but no, I have much to see to since," he narrowed his eyes at Taranari, "_someone _drugged me to sleep when I had no time for rest."

The redheaded elf worked the front of her towel between her fingers, a small smile pointed to the floor. "I already _apologized _for that."

He walked to his own room, chuckling, and throwing, "Enjoy your bath, Inquisitor," over his shoulder.

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><p>They spent a week at the Winter Palace, helping to cleanup and repair the building that was the seat of Orlais' government, as well as reorganize the system of power itself. Tara spent hours conferencing with Celine, Gaspard, and Briala, successfully wheedling and strong arming the three into a shaky alliance, only made possible by Florianne's attack, which managed to make them more receptive to the needs and well-being of their people. No one expected it to <em>last <em>of course, but Tara understood that nothing she did to stabilize Orlais would due in the long term. That wasn't how their society worked.

The Orlesians thrived on sensation and power, and that often came with chaos. Tara needed peace, however tenuous, to survive long enough to defeat Corypheus, and with this arrangement she was certain she'd get it.

The only issue left for her to deal with was the question of Morrigan.

While Solas, Dorian, Cullen, and Tara were working with her to determine exactly what had caused the explosion in the palace, and if it was a weapon that could be replicated in future encounters, the mage had made a formal (and very enticing) offer to sign on with the Inquisition. She would serve as both another expert on ancient magic and a representative for Celine's interests with them, two things which they definitely needed. Solas' knowledge alone had not been enough to reveal Corypheus' secrets, and Orlais required a more formal, permanent presence at Skyhold, as Tara was leaving a legion of spies, soldiers, and diplomats in the Winter Palace to keep an eye on things there; it would be rude not to at least try to maintain a semblance of equality in their partnership.

Despite the logic, this proposal bruised Solas' ego tremendously. "She is not as she seems," he told Tara during a closed door discussion on Morrigan's joining them.

"And what does she seem?"

"An eccentric mage, I presume."

Here, Tara had cocked a deprecating eyebrow. "Make no mistake, Solas, I don't believe she's anything so tame."

That had calmed him somewhat, but he still vehemently opposed her presence.

Leliana's perspective had been slightly more helpful: "Morrigan… oh she was wild as her homeland when I knew her! Even with Gwendolyn, I mean the Hero of Fereldan," this she said with mild distaste, "guiding and befriending her, she was much rougher than she is now. I cannot help but be worried that her edges have been polished smooth, for now she knows more and reveals less. And she revealed very little then."

_That _account gave Tara some pause, more than Solas' visceral dislike. Though she respected him, she couldn't turn away a source of information like Morrigan without a reasonable cause. But even with Leliana's caution, she didn't think she could refuse the woman. There was _so much _they didn't know about Corypheus and his army; even the hope of getting more answers seemed worth the risk.

The real question at that point was whether to proceed back to Skyhold, as neither Morrigan nor the Inquisition's people had determined the cause of the explosion, and Celine didn't want her arcane advisor leaving without first giving answers. Tara wasn't too happy about the idea either, knowing they were facing an opponent with such capabilities, but she also needed to move her force out of the Winter Palace, before rumors began flying about their extended presence. Varric had been recovered enough to travel for several days, and she had been more than antsy tiptoeing around in finery and curtsying to everyone during that time.

However, they needed to know if the explosion was some sort of lyrium bomb, as Cullen suggested, or something else entirely. Morrigan had confirmed the Commander's suspicion that it wasn't a spell, as neither of them had sensed a mage draw on their mana, suggesting a weapon. But _what? _More importantly, how did Florianne detonate it while being dragged off?

These were questions Tara knew very well might never be answered, but she was hesitant to sidestep them too quickly. The image of Varric's broken body was still burning in her mind (she was convinced no amount of time spent seeing him alive and well would dislodge it) and had brought on nightmares just as vivid as those she'd had about Therinfal Redoubt.

Having startled awake from one of these dreams, Tara stared at the parquetted ceiling of her temporary chamber, dusted by moonlight, as she weighed her options.

_Nothing is ideal anymore, _she thought bitterly, sparing a glance for the door that would lead to Cullen's room. She knew that it was foolish to situate herself so close to him, but Leliana and Josephine had practically tossed her trunk on the bed when they found out Cullen had been moved next door. Tara could have protested, but what would that do but confirm that her feelings were getting more troublesome? Her two female advisors were already suspicious and giggly enough – no need to give them more fuel.

But his nearness (and despite her bipolar denial she readily admitted this) was becoming unbearable.

The way he'd looked at her when he caught her in the towel, eyes pained and elated at the same time, every muscle tense, coiled, like he might rip it from her at any second… It had made her pulse _race._

Then back to the formal "Inquisitor" that sounded nothing like a lover, barely even a friend. It was like a slap in the face compared to the warm way he'd spoken her name, like a caress, like an intimate secret between them.

_How _could she remain in denial now? She couldn't call this fear. She wasn't cringing from him. No, he was setting her on fire, and she _liked _it.

_But it's hopeless, _she reaffirmed, trying to turn to more practical thoughts. His sense of duty to the Inquisition would never allow for such impropriety. She was merely an indulgence for him, a craving in moments of weakness, if anything at all.

"Aghhhhhhhrrrrrr," she groaned, rolling onto her stomach in frustration. It certainly wouldn't help her move past this if he kept looking at her like he had been the past few days – smoldering, longing, _infuriating _stares. They filled her with hopes she shouldn't have, fantasies that sprang to life as she was lying alone in bed.

Her mind would never turn off, she realized. _I'll never sleep again._ What with the Inquisition and Cullen's eyes and Sera causing a ruckus everywhere she went and Josephine and Leliana teasing her about the Commander and…

Suddenly her eyes, wide and staring angrily at the wall, began to drift closed. It was as if some presence was pulling her down, down into the Fade.

"Goodnight, Inquisitor," she heard the barest whisper, almost her imagination, and said a silent "thank you" to Cole.

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><p>Solas watched her from a distance, slipping through the Fade mists like a lithe ghost, her vibrant hair allowing him to easily follow. He had seen part of her nightmare about Varric, and had asked Cole to help her to a more peaceful rest. Now, he marveled as the Fade shaped around her, bending out of her way like it was attuned to her will; he loved watching her do this. She was a natural, perhaps by birth, perhaps because of the anchor. Either way, it was incredibly entrancing.<p>

A house erected around her, small but warmly furnished, a fire in the hearth and a spicy scent on the air. She spread wide windows with flowers growing round the sills, and a staircase leading to a second story. There were windows there as well, and dappled sunlight streaming in through the branches of the white birch tree sheltering the back of the house.

Taranari leaned out of one of these, and called to a small golden haired child with warm amber eyes who was playing in the moss on the exposed tree roots. The little girl looked up with a grin, pushing up from the dirt and running to the front entrance, hair tossing in the wind.

Solas' bemused smile froze when he saw her ears, dainty and slightly elongated, but _round._

It was then he noticed the horse trotting up to the homestead, the long fur cloak its rider wore over his armor, the golden hair.

Taranari scooped up the little girl, leaning in the front doorway with the tittering child on her hip and a look of bliss on her usually strained face, waiting as Cullen dismounted, as he came forward to greet his family.

Solas felt a pit of disgust twist in his stomach. What was this trivial artifice she'd created? Was _this _really what happiness looked like to her? A domestic cottage?

The Taranari he knew was not so tame or predictable. She shone in battle, in leadership; she wasn't a demure housewife, the elven consort of a human knight. Solas felt betrayed by her subconscious, by the role it revealed her in.

He turned away, angrily, retreating to another area of the Fade, where emotions weren't quite so raw.

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><p><strong>Check back soon for more!<strong>


	12. Hawke

**Thanks again for all the praise and etc. This story lives off of you, lovely readers!**

**Hope you appreciate the extra long chapter to make up for the late updates! Also, this chapter properly introduces my Hawke in all her glory. Hope you love her! Oh and for Anders haters, I am personally much more of a fan of the Fenris romance, but for this storyline, I wanted to make it a little more complicated. We'll see where it goes ;D**

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><p>Chapter 12 – Hawke<p>

Morrigan convinced Celine that she could just as easily study the possible causes of the explosion from Skyhold (impressed by a letter Dagna had sent her on the subject and eager to see if the Arcanist could help her solve the mystery) and the Inquisition swiftly departed from Orlais, everyone eager to be home.

A little less than a week brought them to Skyhold.

A wave of relief swept over Tara when she reentered the gates, and though Varric was a little worse off for the journey (they'd taken him to the small infirmary for further healing) the elven Inquisitor was pleased to see most of her people felt similarly. They all breathed a collective sort of sigh – shoulders relaxing, fists unclenching from reigns – as they settled back into their home.

A messenger brought word that Hawke had returned that morning, having seen their approach, and had been given a room where she now waited for Tara. The Inquisitor had known the woman was planning on camping in the mountains nearby, waiting on word from her Warden contact, Stroud, while they dealt with the business in Orlais. Tara hoped her sudden presence didn't mean that their dawdling at the Winter Palace had thrown plans out of motion with the Wardens.

Tara hurried to the guest wing of the fortress, knocking on the door and entering at Hawke's soft, "Come in."

She stepped into the small room, seeing the other woman turned from the door, staring out the small window, her back stiff. "Varric is injured?" Hawke rasped; there were notes of panic in the question.

Tara quickly explained what happened at the palace as well as the current circumstances. "The journey took a toll on him, but really, he's fine," she assured her.

Hawke tucked her hair behind her ear – brown, lusterless.

It seemed a lot about her could be described like that now.

She still laughed in a way Tara understood, because she understood Varric, and the kind of friendships he bred. The dwarf drew and gave loyalty he'd never admit; Hawke basked in it when she could, and the elf saw it in her eyes – it became her primary relief. Everything else had grown hard and brittle like her hair, the light in her eyes aged beyond her years.

Cullen told Tara once that Hawke looked wilted. "She used to lead people like you do, and she shone with it," he had said, and Tara tried not to blush at the hidden compliment he hadn't realized he was giving. "She's just going through the motions now."

She recognized the truth of his words later.

Upon the first meeting with Hawke there had been an excitement between them, an understanding that brewed between kindred spirits, two women in impossible positions. They'd laughed with the impossibility, and called each other by their names, tossing away titles they didn't feel they'd earned and had never coveted. Hawke had been steel then, of course, but she'd been _shining._

Now, Tara realized that had more to do with Hawke's relief at seeing Varric again, in meeting someone as hopelessly looked up to as herself. The more Tara saw of the woman, the more she saw what was _missing, _that Varric could only fill for a few moments with laughter and friendship before the haunted look returned to the back of her eyes. She'd hidden it expertly, but Tara recognized the darkness behind the mask; she knew that play too well not to see it on someone else.

The Inquisitor wondered if it had to do with the mage. The man Varric rarely referred to by his name – he called him blondie on the scarce occasions he'd spoken of him. Tara had read his story, however.

_Hawke's _story.

In it, Varric described how she fell in love with the apostate, his underground hospital, his spirit possession, his vengeance; danger and compassion in equal parts, rage warring against his need to heal and protect.

Anders.

Rage had won.

Tara didn't know how much of Varric's account was actually true. It was common knowledge that an apostate had decimated the Chantry in Kirkwall, the final straw beginning the mage and Templar rebellions, but it was also common knowledge the Varric spun stories like spiders spun webs. And both were exceedingly complicated and full of gaps.

"Thank you for your kindness, Taranari," Hawke said at last, a clear dismissal from her borrowed room. But her eyes, a pale, clear sort of green like the pond Tara had met Blackwall beside, were not unfeeling enough to make the elf sure she wanted to be left.

"Hawke."

The woman turned her head from the window she'd been fixed on since Tara's entrance. There was hope buried behind the mask; Tara certainly couldn't leave now.

She had questions anyway. Plenty enough to distract Hawke from her demons for a while.

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><p>It started the way it always did.<p>

"How much of Varric's account is actually true?" Taranari asked, slipping into a chair adjacent to the window seat Hawke was perched on.

Hawke was relieved that the questions were old. This was a dance she could do, that she didn't mind doing to pass the time and pass whatever knowledge her life could give to the red haired elf who shouldered an arguably larger burden.

She quirked her lips at her elven counterpart, sliding her gaze back to the window. "What did _he _tell you?" An old, old line. She used to recite it if she thought she was about to lie for him. Then, when she realized she didn't always _have _to lie for him, she merely said it to know what he'd said, so she could laugh about it later.

Taranari chewed her lip. She looked so much younger than Hawke thought she should, and Hawke's mind wondered back to Kirkwall. What did _she_ look like all those years ago, when she first wondered off the boat, father and sister-less, her only allies her cantankerous brother and a severe, widowed swordswoman?

_Thank the Maker for Varric. _The thought was almost compulsive now. Through everything, Varric was like her heartbeat, keeping her alive, forcing her to smile even when she hated the sound of her own laugh, hated the feeling of laughing.

And she knew with certainty that when he went, she would as well. Hawke could only hope that the reverse was not true; she wanted Varric to have everything, everything she'd lost she wanted for him, even if she never got to see him get it.

It gave her hope that he had Taranari. If he could let her in, she could help him sand off the sharp, painful parts again, as Hawke once had. As it was, his acclaimed best friend was little use to him now in that regard; she'd been using him like a numbing potion for far too long.

"He said…" The redhead smiled a little as she remembered. "He said, 'A writer is given some liberties. We can't just report the cold facts. Where is the poetry in that?'"

Hawke laughed, barely an exhale of breath. She rarely _really _laughed when he wasn't around. "That sounds like him. Dodging."

Taranari smiled warmly, and Hawke noticed that she was beautiful.

Beautiful in a way that might have once meant something to her. She might have tried to convince her to spar with Fenris, in some sick hope that they would hit it off and have beautiful elven babies with her fiery hair and his fathomless eyes. Hawke had always been fascinated by Fenris' eyes – they held the world in judgment, they condemned, they were as unyielding as the master he once served and yet… She knew there was a depth to them that took in so much more.

She loved him most for that depth, she thought. Even when she couldn't forget the disdain, the hatred that those eyes had expressed during their years as companions. Even when she tortured herself with the way those eyes had held her with impossible tenderness after Carver joined the Templars, the understanding there that Anders' raging could never outmatch. But the moment was so fleeting she didn't believe it to be real, and she'd already made her choice, however little she'd known it at that time.

She refused to tell Varric how much she missed Fenris' scathing glare. He had kept in contact with Varric, not her, and she knew very well why. But she couldn't think about that with other people around, she had pretenses to uphold.

"What do you want to know, exactly?"

That was always Hawke's response when people began asking about Varric's book. She couldn't very well tell them _everything. _The book was long enough already.

Taranari rolled her shoulders in the beginnings of a reconsidered shrug. "Any glaring inaccuracies that stick out off the top of your head?"

There was something in the elf's large golden eyes that told Hawke she had a very specific question rattling around. Hawke would drag it out of her eventually.

A hand went to the side of Hawke's head as she considered the other woman's question. "You'd be surprised to know that most of it is actually pretty close to the truth. He pads the sod out of it, sure. We were never that funny or that crass, and the dragon was _barely _big enough to be considered such, but then, he's right. It _is _a _story._"

She was looking out the window again, watching the sun set over the glorious mountains surrounding Skyhold, but she could feel Taranari's eyes burrowing into her. "Is it easier to think of it that way?" the elven woman asked, trying to sound offhand. "Instead of as your life?"

Hawke was hit with an overwhelming association. Her sister's softly voiced questions, probing whatever issue lay under the surface, solving her problems without even forcing her to talk about them. It made her heart constrict and swell simultaneously, for as much as she missed Bethany, she had always wanted Varric to have known her.

It warmed parts of her that had been frozen for years to know that a piece of who her sister had been had found him.

"Yes." She replied simply because the answer wasn't important; the question was the important part.

The redheaded rogue blinked at her several times, as if trying to decide something. Finally, she said, "And what about Anders?"

Taranari cringed with her, as the name drilled a quiet hole through Hawke. It didn't hurt as much as it once had, and there was this desperate _need _to talk about him that had sprung up since she got over her initial grief, which was relieved to have him brought up. Still, she hadn't expected that question yet.

But this woman cut to the heart of things – she saw that now.

A long exhale preceded her explanation, as she tried to comprehend what exactly Taranari was asking her. Then she realized what she would be asking, what she had asked the King/Alistair all those years ago.

"You want to know if it was worth it."

It wasn't a question.

Taranari blanched. "How—"

"We're both powerful women," she said with a rueful smile. "And we've all had our hearts broken at least once. We're stubborn and strong enough not to let it happen again, if we choose to. I wondered the same thing, once."

The elf looked both embarrassed and fascinated at the same time. "And what was your answer?"

There was only one answer.

She might've given her a very different one when she first came to Kirkwall, naïve and scared and grieving. Falling slowly in love with a healer was an irony she couldn't afford, just another apostate to keep secret from Knight Commander Meredith, but she let it happen anyway. She'd flirted, like a fool, looking for something she thought she was missing but was actually too afraid to find. When he told her he'd break her heart, she threw caution to the wind, realizing that her heart was already broken and he could fill in some of the cracks.

She wasn't afraid of pain. She'd known pain very well by the time she uncovered the extent of her feelings for Anders. She was afraid of not experiencing life the way she once had; she was afraid of never feeling the way Aveline had felt for her husband, love strong enough to kill him, put him out of his misery, no matter how much misery that put upon her.

The irony of that, Hawke did not miss.

Their love had been brilliant and shattering all at once, because as soon as he became everything, as soon as she let herself melt into his arms, she discovered how much he was losing of himself to Justice. The slow torture was watching his eyes change, their warmth disappear into a calculating _need _fed by his emotions, amplified by the spirit. It shouldn't have been surprising to her when he was swallowed by his rage, when the world was collapsing around her and it was _his fault._

And hers by extension, because she didn't stop him. She'd _tried, _but it wasn't enough. She wasn't enough.

She couldn't let him live after that. People thought she couldn't forgive his crimes, that his betrayal had been too great; she supposed that was partially true. But the greater truth was that she couldn't look at him, a perversion of himself, anymore, and she couldn't let him hurt anyone else for her weakness. For months she'd been more a monitor than a lover, and that day he'd murdered so many in cold blood, she became executioner, adding one more body to the massacre.

She'd held him as he died, felt the tremors that wracked his body as she ran her equally trembling hands through his hair. He'd murmured what she hoped were reassurances into her stomach, his head in her lap, and she'd told him she loved him until he stilled. Then the grief drained her of everything she had.

The only reason she'd had the strength to save the city from itself was because she was so _furious._

Strong enough to kill him. Love bright enough to break her.

It all could've been avoided had she just listened when he said he would hurt her.

And _Maker_ had he hurt her.

She looked into Taranari's eyes.

"Yes."

"But—"

"Yes, it was worth it. Yes, unequivocally, yes."

Taranari was still as it sank in, her mouth twitching slightly at the corners. "Do you think," she sighed, "Do you think you'll ever be able to feel that again?"

Hawke's thoughts instantly turned to Fenris, to the way he'd looked at her during their final battles, the scorn, the shame. If anyone… no, she couldn't think like that. He was lost to her now; they would never be the way they once were again. He hadn't even stayed long enough after the last battle to see that she'd survived the giant gash Meredith left in her thigh, as there was no Anders around to heal her. Merrill had done her best, but the scar was long and jagged and still ached of that day.

Hawke ran her hand over her trousers, feeling the slight ridge where the skin puckered. "I don't know," she replied honestly.

Taranari's lips tightened as she considered this, and Hawke saw the age sweep over her features; now she looked how Hawke expected – somber, worn.

She tried to change the subject. "So, who has you so worked up?" There was a smile in her voice, and she saw Taranari perk up immediately.

The elf smiled sarcastically. "What, Varric hasn't given you the full account and a sex scene?"

Hawke's lips curled. "He has his theories," she conceded, "but I'm interested to see if he's right."

Taranari mimed zipping and locking her lips, and Hawke was reminded again of Bethany. Who would _she _have fallen for?

"I'm thinking strong and silent type," Hawke guessed, thoughts turned toward the grim looking Warden. Bethany had always loved the dark browed, loyal warriors.

The elf scoffed. "Which _one?_"

"Hmmmmm, the broody mage?" she asked, knowing full well Varric had already beaten that path. At least Taranari wasn't _quite _as foolish as herself.

The rogue laughed. "Solas?" At Hawke's nod, her grin widened. "No, no, he's a genius, but no."

"A _sexy_ genius?" Hawke raised a teasing brow.

The elf gave her a no nonsense look. "Well honesty is not the same as attraction."

Hawke chuckled, though it still sounded glum compared to Taranari's full, warm laugh. "Very well. What about the Warden? My sister would have adored that beard," she joked.

The elf's expression sobered slightly at the mention of Bethany. "He's a friend and confidant, nothing more."

Hawke began to fiddle with the red handkerchief (her sister's) peeking out from beneath the collar of the robe she was wearing. She'd had the urge to reach for it more and more lately, feeling a closeness to her departed sibling she hadn't in years. Hawke wondered vaguely if it meant she was near joining her and their parents at the side of the Maker.

She had unarticulated hopes that it did.

But she struggled to keep herself in the moment. She was enjoying this conversation with Taranari too much to let it completely derail. "Hmmmm, and seeing as the Qunari and the "Vint" are too enamored with each other to give you the time of day, I'd have to—"

"Wait, what?" the elf sputtered. "_Dorian _and _Iron Bull?"_

Hawke was eager to find a note of jealousy in her surprise (_that _would have been something to rub in Varric's face, something he didn't know), but alas, Taranari merely seemed shocked.

"Well every time one looks away, the other starts staring. Haven't you noticed?"

She evidently hadn't by the way she was turning a pale green. "I walked in on them at Hilamshiral. I thought they were arguing, their faces were so close, but… Dammit, how was I supposed to know Bull was into men? He's been making passes at _everyone._" She looked truly pained by this new information, and her failure to see it sooner.

Hawke felt real mirth bubbling up in her chest. "Maybe it's not _just _men_,_" she pointed out.

The elf slapped a hand to the side of her head. "_Dammit." _She smacked her palm into her skull several times emphasizing her words, "Dammit, dammit, dammit, I have such a thick head!"

Hawke's amusement overcame whatever mental blockade she'd put up, and she chuckled, small, but earnestly. "You realize this leaves the Commander," she commented with a sly smile.

Taranari froze. "Leaves him for what?" Her voice was a shade higher than it had been a moment ago.

Hawke's face stretched into a grin. "I hate it when that damn dwarf is right all the time."

Varric had gloated to her about the secret love affair he'd discovered between their former Knight Captain and the Inquisitor at the first opportunity, and she'd scoffed. The Cullen she remembered was so somber and duty bound that she doubted he'd ever be able to allow himself to feel for a superior the way Varric thought he did. However, seeing him now, the lyrium no longer buzzing under his skin, his face fuller and form broader than it had ever been during the years they'd worked together, she knew he was a changed man the Inquisition had given him a new start.

She suspected it had done the same for Taranari, and they were doing so for each other as well.

"Right about _what?"_ the elf blanched.

Hawke raised a deprecating eyebrow at the rogue. "Obliviousness doesn't suit you, nor is it believable."

Taranari sank back huffily into her chair. "What do you want me to say, Hawke?"

She considered this. "Nothing to me. _He _is the one you should be confessing to," she nodded in the direction she thought was Cullen's battlement office.

"I…" her brow creased. "I can't _do _that to him. You knew him in Kirkwall. You know he would never engage in something so—"

"I knew a very different man," Hawke corrected.

The rogue sighed. "Even so," she murmured, "what he feels for me is a weakness in his mind."

Hawke was surprised, turning her body completely away from the window to face the elven Inquisitor. _They've spoken about it?_

"He said that?"

Taranari snorted. "It's written in his eyes – desire, pain, shame. I can read them well enough."

Hawke met the other woman's gaze sympathetically. "You know fear, my friend. Give him the time you've given yourself."

"But we have a job to do, a country to save. If this goes awry..."

"It _won't,_" Hawke interrupted.

Taranari stood tiredly, running a vexed hand through her hair. "Thank you for the advice Hawke, but I must go help my people unpack. May I walk you to the infirmary to see Varric?"

Hawke thanked her but said no, she would sit a while longer. Taranari smiled her apology as she made her exit.

When the elf was gone, Hawke returned to the window, where the snow and stone peaks made the view both majestic and bleak. In a few moments she would gather the energy that slipped away with Taranari's departure, and go visit Varric in the infirmary. Until then, she worried and waited for a letter from Stroud, knowing that she was actually waiting for a letter from someone much fairer, someone freer than any Warden, someone who's respect and loyalty she'd lost.

She'd lost so much, but somehow that stung the most.

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><p><strong>Might be next Sunday before I can get the next chapter up, but I'll do my best. Reviews are always appreciated and treasured :)<strong>


	13. Wisdom

**This chapter contains some elvish phrases, which are again translated at the bottom. Also, I will be out of town this weekend, and will likely not get the next chapter up on time.**

**Thank you for all the reviews, follows, and favorites, and a special shout out to repeated reviewers kimmik777 and Elystaa! I'm so happy to know so many of you are enjoying reading this story as much as I'm enjoying writing it! Hope you like the new chapter and please review! **

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><p>Chapter 13 – Wisdom<p>

Solas was deep within the Fade when he heard the call, dark and mournful, a cry of suffering. A voice he recognized gripped him with the sound and he knew, suddenly, where she was and what they had done to her. The force of his fury threw his consciousness from the Fade, startling him awake in the small basement room in which he slept. He rose from his cot, dressing with stiff, jerky movements, thinking only of the journey to the Exalted Plains where his friend had been summoned and how quickly he could make it to rescue her.

It occurred to him as he fumbled with the sash of his robe that he would have to tell Taranari; she would be livid if he ran off into the night to face an unknown enemy on his own, and more than that, he wanted her fighting by his side, wanted her support in this mad rescue. She'd become a constant in his life he couldn't deny, even if he was increasingly perturbed by her dreams. He trusted her, he _relied _on her, perhaps too much.

Even so. He made his way up the stairs to the atrium he inhabited during waking hours, and then out into the main hall, creeping past Varric and Hawke (momentarily out of her silly Orlesian disguise) who appeared asleep in front of the fireplace. Though Solas hardly trusted their faux-snores, he was grateful they'd chosen to pretend rather than confront him. As he slipped through the door leading to the Inquisitor's turret, he hoped that neither dwarf nor human would choose to follow.

That was all he needed.

Solas padded up the seldom used staircase, the banister layered with dust, disturbed at intervals by slender handprints; he was surprised to see a faint glow emanating from beneath the door ahead. He had not considered that she might be awake at this hour, as he'd seen her to her door himself many hours earlier, ending a heated discussion on Morrigan's prolonged presence. She'd excused herself on the pretense of exhaustion, but then, he supposed that not many had as sacred a relationship with sleep as he did. In fact, the Inquisitor took almost every opportunity to avoid it, what with the extra watches on the road and long nights of paperwork and administration at Skyhold.

He wondered how she carried on with such vigor all the time; her smiles seemed such hard work.

He raised his hand to knock, but paused when he heard a feminine voice in the room beyond. "I…what…quest…don't know…save…and what…live…" He could make out very few words, but what he did understand sounded like some sort of speech she was preparing. It did not seem that there were any other people there with her.

_If _he _is in there, _Solas killed the thought in his mind as quickly as it came. Cullen was not in the Inquisitor's room. Solas didn't care if he was. This didn't, couldn't, matter.

He knocked.

"Oh!" the startled sound cut off her monologue. "Er, come in, I suppose," she called down.

Solas entered her chamber, looking up to find Taranari, apprehension in the set of her lips, peering over the edge of the small sofa situated parallel to the steps to the main floor of her apartment. Along with the apprehension, he caught a split second of excitement in her eyes; he wondered who she was expecting.

Watching her instantly relax, he gathered it was not him.

"Solas!" she greeted him pleasantly if tiredly, bounding to her feet and meeting him at the landing of the stairs.

It was then that he saw her properly. Her hair was loose and shining, flowing down her back and shoulders like a velvet cloak, and he'd never wanted to touch it more than he did right then. She wore a simple night dress and robe, long and filmy, the color of the spires of Arlathan, and the moonlight from her windows combined with the smoldering fire in the hearth cast her in a bewitching glow. Her face was boldly bare and her eyes gleamed like the magic the Elvhenan used to breathe into the world, a pure, magnificent gold.

For an instant, she looked like home.

He wanted to cry and clutch her to him with joy for that moment of understanding and remembrance. It was overwhelming how forcefully his emotions swept over him, and he fell to his knees with the completeness.

There she was.

"Solas?" Her voice was heavy on his skin with concern and a lack of understanding that shattered the illusion.

He swiped a hand across his forehead, beaded with instant cold sweat, in an effort to compose himself. "I apologize, Inquisitor. I am…quite in shock." It was the truth, but he knew she would misinterpret the meaning; how could she ever understand what he really felt?

"Please come sit," she urged, motioning to the chaise she had vacated moments before. "Tell me what's happened." The worry lining her eyes soothed the pain of having the image of his people appear and slip away so suddenly; she always had a knack for caring about people in a way that made them feel important, even if she was just patting a shoulder genially as she passed by. Everyone felt her presence in their lives.

Solas knew how dangerous a trap that was, but he'd fallen into it nonetheless. His desire to please and protect her was now greater than his caution, and he knew that would be his downfall eventually, if not both of theirs. But it was too late; the only thing he could do now was hope she defeated Corypheus in time for him to save her from the truth, and himself from having to face her with it.

"What is it?" she asked, having seated herself beside him on the small couch. She had her hand resting comfortingly over his on his knee. If only she knew the energy coursing up his arm at that simple touch, if only she knew how powerful she was.

He sighed, long and slow, giving himself time to gather his explanation again.

"My friend has been kidnapped," he began softly, catching the sharp intake of breath and the angry crease that formed in Taranari's brow. "She contacted me through the Fade, begging my help, and I must go to the Exalted Plains to save her." His voice was much calmer than he felt, as the rage began to rekindle as he spoke of it. His skin prickled with mana, summoned to the surface by his anger.

"Is she a dream walker, like you?"

"She is a spirit of wisdom," he murmured, hoping that wouldn't affect the decision he'd seen in Taranari's eyes. She hadn't made it clear what her opinions were on spirits of the Fade, though she accepted Cole with ready enough arms and she had said once she didn't think it right that mages summoned spirits unwillingly to do their dirty work. That didn't mean she would consider it kidnapping, however, or any cause worth travelling such a distance to rectify.

But, true to the woman he hoped she was, she did not flinch at this information. Her resolve to help him was like granite. "I am coming with you. Name whatever else you need and you'll have it."

The edges of his lips lifted despite his inner turmoil. "You are more than enough."

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><p>They rode through the night, stopping at brief intervals to rest their steeds and pretend to rest themselves. Tara was keeping a close eye on Solas, who was tense and stiff, with an angry grit to his teeth; she knew he was unlikely to be able to relax enough to sleep, not that she blamed him, so she had decided to keep him company as much as possible.<p>

She dozed off a few times the following day while riding, from pure exhaustion, but that was unintentional. And despite his cold disposition during the journey, he still shook her awake with a gentle hand, which she appreciated.

It took another solid night of hard riding, sometimes using Solas' magic to revive the harts, to bring them to the edges of Dirthavaren, making what was usually a weeklong journey in a matter of days. Knowing there was likely a battle in their immediate future, Tara convinced her elven companion to rest until dawn, just a few hours away, but he slumbered for mere minutes at a time, jolting awake with a pained clarity in his dark eyes every time he slipped into the Fade.

There was a damp, chill to the plain's wind that morning when they finally mounted the rise to which Solas had been summoned. They were on foot, as they'd tied the harts to some rocks on the bank of the nearby river, and were fully armed and armored, unsure of what to expect.

Tara did _not _expect a colossal pride demon.

When Solas saw the violet haze of the summoning circle, and the gnarled creature within, he cried out with rage and anguish she never dreamed she'd hear come from his mouth. Then she knew – _that_ was Solas' friend, corrupted. The mages misunderstood him; what they thought it meant – a battle cry or an offer of assistance maybe – she did not know. But when a middle-aged pudgy man in badly embroidered robes rushed over to the two of them, she saw a darker anger, the silent and deadly kind, take over her companion.

"Thank the Maker you've come!" the man sputtered breathlessly, waving his staff over his shoulder at the demon and several mage companions who were taking turns casting barriers around the circle. "That thing has been trapping us here for days."

Tara tried to angle her body between the mage and Solas, but he pushed past her, gripping the man by the collar. "Then _why _did you _summon _her?" he hissed in the aghast mage's face.

"Her? Please," the mage cringed away from Solas' ire, "we summoned the demon to fight the bandits who attacked, but we couldn't control it. It turned on us. We finally managed to contain it back in its summoning circle but we're wearing thin. We need help."

Solas shoved the man into the dirt. "I am not here to help _you._" His palms were crackling with energy, as if he was considering attacking the pathetic mage where he lay befuddled, like a roach stuck on its back.

"Solas." Tara placed a hand on his arm, redirecting his attention with a nod of her head to the spirit, currently in demon form. "How do we return her to the Fade?"

Pain and rage bled through his features. "I am not certain it is even possible now. We could try destroying the summoning circle, but even then—"

Tara was already running towards the the pride demon, a perverted spirit of wisdom, Solas' friend. She thought it was strange, certainly, that he had such close bonds with these Fade entities, but she recognized their value as creatures deserving of rights.

And it was Tara's opinion that everyone should have the right not to be a giant, ogre-like demon.

She pulled an exploding flask from the satchel at her hip and decimated the closest of the conduits forming the circle around the creature, to which it responded by releasing an electrical attack on her so powerful, she thought her muscle spasms would shatter her whole body.

And indeed, when Solas finally caught up and flanked the creature, halting the onslaught of electricity, Tara could feel the tender ach in her ribcage and in a toe on her left foot that suggested broken bones. Even so, she groaned into a vertical position, drawing her twin blades, and hobbled to next tower of the summoning circle, slashing it repeatedly until it, too, was rendered useless. She repeated this process several more times, painfully dodging the demon's attacks in between, and once, moving to take a lightning attack meant for Solas, knowing it was more important that he come out of the fight with working limbs, so he could heal hers.

Finally, the circle's field of energy disintegrated, and with it went the demonic form of the spirit. In its place was the silhouette of a beautiful, robed woman being consumed by smoke, with eye sockets of burning green fire. "She is dying," Solas choked, coming up beside Tara and kneeling by his friend.

Tara stepped back a little to give the two some privacy, keeping a wary eye on the cluster of mages watching them. The spirit and Solas spoke softly in what sounded like ancient elvish, but was too fast and colored by a dialect she wasn't familiar with for her to understand. However, she did understand the resignation in Solas' eyes just before he released his friend, and her form turned to burning bits of parchment, floating away on the wind. Tara thought she heard a small sob shudder through his lips at this point, but then she might've been imagining things.

"Ir abelas, Lethallin," Tara murmured, approaching and placing a consoling hand on his shoulder, much like he once had for her.

He surrendered a moment, clutching her hand under his own and leaning his head into her arm, clenched around this simple gesture like it was the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth.

But the mages made the mistake of interrupting his sorrow.

"Thank you for saving us," the pudgy one from before said, looking a bit uncertain as he led his comrades forward to meet their heroes.

Through the hand with which she held him, Tara felt Solas' entire being stiffen; the emotion with which he mourned the loss of his friend was swept aside, and replaced by a deadened fury that frightened even her. The veins in his forehead were pulsating irregularly as he shoved her away, rising to his full height, form crackling with mana.

"_You tortured and killed my friend," _Solas bellowed, advancing on the mages with a venomous, murderous look she'd only seen on his face a few times in the heat of battle. Now, he intended to kill these idiots in cold blood.

Tara wasn't sure she should stop him; they killed an innocent, sacrificed her, to save themselves. But, they did it unknowingly. They had been taught to survive in this manner; it was all they knew. Should they be sentenced to death for being true to the teachings of the very circle that she herself had pardoned for their crimes?

She saw as Solas braced himself to be a conduit, channeling his mana into one of the more deadly and vicious attacks in his arsenal. His staff was glowing red, her only warning that it was about to burst into flames.

"Banal, nan din el vir, Solas!" She made her decision, trying to call him back to her, to the restrained man she'd come to trust and understand. He was not himself anymore, the cruelty in his face assured her of that.

He paused at her words, body still haloed with energy, turning his eyes to meet hers. When they connected, she felt something slide into place in her mind, a little "oh" that she hadn't understood until then.

Solas was afraid..._of her_.

She saw it; deep within the fury and pain and misunderstanding, was a core of fear. Was it of her judgment? Her power? She didn't think he was worried she would attack him, so what?

"Vengeance is not our way," she repeated, searching his eyes for an explanation, or at the very least, for himself. But he held no answers for her.

They were locked in a staring contest for a few more tense moments, before he relented, releasing his fire on a nearby rock formation in a torrential volley, then turned back to the cowering mages. "Never. Again," he told them, to whimpers and nods of assent.

It really was a pitiful group. Tara was uncertain how they survived the rebellions, being so weak.

"Solas," she said, motioning him to follow her back to where they'd left their mounts.

He was breathing heavily, barely in control, as he loped away behind her. His eyes were wild when she looked at him, and Tara wondered if he was actually seeing the landscape of the plains, or if he was watching his friend disappear over and over again.

When they reached their harts, Elgar and Nehn, he pressed his face into Nehn's thick red fur, breathing deeply. Turning his head to the side, he murmured to Tara, "I need some time alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold. Dareth shiral."

He was on the hart's back in an instant, and bounding across the river, away from the direction where the mages had been. Elgar snorted and tossed his head, eager to follow, but Tara hushed him, watching Solas and Nehn fly over the horizon. "Peace, my friend," she said softly, stroking the hart's velvety nose. "We must let them go, and hope that they come back to us."

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><p><strong>Translated Elvish:<strong>

**Ir abelas - I'm sorry**

**Banal, nan din el vir. - No, vengeance is not our way.**

**Nehn - Joy**

**Dareth shiral - Safe journey.**


End file.
